


The Sword and The Heart

by devviepuu, RecoveringTheSatellites



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Captain Swan Supernatural Summer 2020 (Once Upon a Time), Dark Emma Swan, Dark Magic, Dark One Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Dark One Emma Swan, F/M, HEA Always They Just Have To Work For It First, Heavy Angst, Season/Series 05, Temporary Character Death, They'll Be Back, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, they don't really die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:19:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 62,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24824461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devviepuu/pseuds/devviepuu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecoveringTheSatellites/pseuds/RecoveringTheSatellites
Summary: It started because love was a weapon.Wait--this is how it started: Emma opened her mouth to scream, and the world went dark.There was danger and Darkness, and words spoken into the void as she surrendered herself.It started because Emma did not want to see anyone else she loved die.  (He’d promised her he wouldn’t.)Love was a weapon, and it was always used against her, to separate her from the people she loved.  (From the person she loved.)That's how it started.But now Emma Swan, Dark One, has to answer a question:How does it all end?(Season 5A/B Canon Divergence)
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones & Henry Mills, Captain Hook | Killian Jones & Snow White | Mary Margaret Blanchard, Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan, Evil Queen | Regina Mills & Emma Swan, Henry Mills & Emma Swan, Snow White | Mary Margaret Blanchard & Emma Swan
Comments: 247
Kudos: 85
Collections: Captain Swan Supernatural Summer 2020





	1. The Lady of Circumstance

**Author's Note:**

> for the Captain Swan Supernatural Summer 2020 event  
> art by @profdanglais and @RecoveringTheSatellites
> 
> CW: This story is a canon divergence from S5, and we will be playing with the canonical character death that took place during that arc. As in S5, this death will be temporary.  
>  _Caveat emptor_ \--but we hope you give this a try.

* * *

_Once upon a time._

Four words, age-old, at the preface of every great story--stories meant to teach the difference between heroes and villains.

Between good and evil.

Once upon a time, there was a little Lost Girl in the cold streets of Minneapolis. Her name was Emma, and Emma didn’t know--or care--about heroes or villains or good or evil. She did, however, love stories; had told them to herself in her head on so many sleepless nights. Stories were places--the only places--were lost little girls found homes, and families, and warmth, and happy endings.

Maybe they never came true, but they were always about the same thing: Transformation.

Transformation-- like the night she needed the book in her backpack to magically become heat and she tried to light it on fire. Another street kid, older than Emma and with red hair, stopped her.

“You’re not really gonna burn that, are you?”

“I’m cold,” she said.

“Yeah, but these stories are great. Like, _The Ugly Duckling_. I loved this one when I was a kid. The duck becomes a swan. It’s beautiful.”

But the duck had always been a swan, Emma knew. That’s what she told herself, on the mornings after, when there was no home or family or warmth or happy ending.

“Maybe that’s how you see it,” the boy had said. “But I see it as about belief--about a duckling believing so hard she’d become a swan that one day, it actually happened.”

So that was her name now--Swan. Emma Swan, back in the system and still telling herself stories, and she liked that her new group home went to the movies a lot. Movies were stories told in the dark.

In the dark, in a theater full of other kids, she could almost feel like just another kid.

“Come on,” her foster mom said. “Everyone stick together.”

In the dark, no one noticed a missing Apollo bar, and Emma didn’t have to share.

“Don’t,” the man said. He appeared suddenly, tall and imposing in a red uniform. The ridiculousness of his hat somehow took nothing away from his authority.

Emma put the candy bar down, unopened. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“I wasn’t talking about the candy bar, Emma,” he said.

She shifted, suddenly uncomfortable in her seat. This man knew she was only sorry she had gotten caught. She could hear it in his voice.

Emma sat up straighter and said, “How do you know my name?”

Because Emma didn’t know--couldn’t know--that this was part of her story; didn’t know that she was the product of True Love.

She was the happy ending to one of the great hero stories.

(No story with a happy ending left a little girl lost and homeless in fucking Minneapolis.)

“I know many things, Emma,” the man said. 

Emma didn’t know that fairy tales were more than true, that they were history. Her history.

Fairy tales tell children that dragons can be killed, that darkness can be overcome.

Belief. Transformation.

What Emma didn’t know--couldn’t know--was that she would be the Darkness.

“And I’m here to tell you: Don’t do it.”

Emma didn’t know that one day she would be called to a hero’s journey of her own, didn’t know that she would break a Dark Curse. 

Didn’t know that when she met Captain Hook, pitting her actual magic powers against his long history of anger issues, she would have their roles mixed up.

She wasn’t ‘good’. Hook wasn’t ‘evil’.

“I don’t understand,” Emma whispered.

“When you do something you’re not supposed to do--even when you do it for the right reasons--bad things happen, Emma.”

Someday, Emma would understand.

Understand that life wasn’t as simple as the stories made it out to be.

(Neither were people.)

“Bad things,” the man repeated. “Leave the sword alone.”

When she opened her heart to Killian Jones, Captain Hook, the lost boy all grown up and on a journey of his own, he wouldn’t be the hero of her story.

But she might be the villain of his.

“I’ll be waiting for you, Emma Swan.”

The man in the red hat was gone.

Emma Swan took a bite of her chocolate bar.

Gone, and already forgotten--except for the voice in her mind that whispered:

_Leave the sword alone, Emma_.

It echoed in the dark.

  
  
  


_Once upon a time..._

##    
  


A steel blade swings towards her, the perfect marriage of heft and razor sharp edge and momentum, and is stopped in its path toward her neck by the steel in her own hands and the desperate brute force of muscle and will.

“So this is how it ends. Not with a whimper. With a bang.” 

Kinetic energy converts into potential energy with a literal bang, and she nearly staggers.

But not quite. This will not best her.

“How fitting.” 

She pulls back her sword, and looks up at his face, contorted with fury and hatred and rage. 

“How fitting that I will be the one to send you to meet your maker.”

She strikes a blow so fast he barely has time to parry.

Their hilts lock, bring her face up against his. She can feel his breath.

“I _am_ your maker,” she hisses and even underneath all his fury, he flinches. She steps back and drops into fighting stance: Deceptively loose, coiled and ready to strike.

Just the way he taught her.

“You’re going to hell,” he snarls, advancing.

She thrusts. “I’ll save you a seat,” she says.

“Let’s finish this.”

##    
  


\--

##    
  


“Dark One, I summon thee.”

Killian Jones knew that words could cut, could be weapons. But in his life--his unnaturally long life--Killian had never felt a sentence cut him to the bone. Until now.

Not when Milah had whispered into his ear with her final breath.

Not when he’d told Bae he would bow out, allow the boy he had betrayed the chance of love and a family that would never be his.

Not even when he was forced to tell Emma the lies Rumplestiltskin whispered into his stolen heart.

Killian had imagined the words, these specific words, imagined using them to summon his crocodile, to feel after centuries the satisfaction of metal piercing scaled skin and finding purchase, delivering a long-overdue death to his foe. But this--now--hearing those words come from his mouth, holding the jagged blade bearing the name _EMMA SWAN_ \--

Given the choice he would have rather eviscerated himself.

But that was not an option; he had no choice.

“Dark One, I summon thee.”

The words tasted like splinters of glass and happiness in his mouth.

And nothing. Happened.

He looked up at Regina, at Snow and David and Robin and _Henry_ , all of them with equal expressions of surprise and barely-contained fear on their faces. 

He tried a third time.

“Dark One,” he said, forcing the words past gritted teeth, “I summon thee.”

Could words actually, physically, break a heart? Was it possible to bleed from them? Metal piercing flesh and finding purchase?

“Why--” Snow’s voice sounded small and much more afraid than he had thought possible. “Why is she not coming?”

He looked down at the cursed dagger, the root of all evil and the source of all of their problems, and felt rage sweep up from his belly, hot and implacable.

“I thought this could summon her from anywhere in the realm,” he hissed, and had the satisfaction, quickly repressed, of seeing Snow flinch from the tone of his voice.

“It can.” Regina’s voice was gratingly calm. “Which can only mean one thing.” She nodded at the dagger.

“Emma isn’t in this realm.”

\--

It started because love was a weapon.

Wait--this is how it started: Emma opened her mouth to scream, and the world went dark.

There was danger and Darkness, and words spoken into the void as she surrendered herself.

It started because Emma did not want to see her loved ones die, and--he’d promised her he wouldn’t. Love was a weapon, and it was always used against her, to separate her from the people she loved--from the person she loved.

_now i lay me down to sleep_

_i will not scream_

_i will not weep_

_if i should die before he wakes--_

There is sunlight.

(Home, and warmth, and a family. A happy ending.)

The sun looks different here, not that she had ever had a reason to notice before. Maybe it is just brighter today because they were all alive.

(They almost hadn’t been.)

(And in her dream, as Emma Swan lay in the arms of the man she loved, there was darkness. A cloud, and a voice: “Leave the sword alone, Emma.”)

**_“Emma.”_ **

His arms are around her, alive and here and whole, but she sees darkness.

She sees a tombstone. _Killian Jones_. 

Emma sees him, battered and bruised and broken and bleeding, and she sees darkness.

(She’d watched him die and it had almost--

It had almost been real.)

It almost killed her, watching it, watching him throw himself in front of Henry. Sacrificing himself to save a world he had no way of knowing was real.

(“All in a day’s work for a hero.”)

He’d promised her.

He’d promised her he’d never do that. He promised he wouldn’t die, and he is looking at her, that look in his eyes--soft and sad and knowing, like he can hear the words even when she does not say them.

Because she can’t..

(In her dream, she whispered it to the tombstone. “I love you,” her voice sounding battered and bruised and broken; she couldn’t tell if he could hear her, if he could see her, if she was even real to him.)

(If he was real at all--if either of them were.)

**_“Emma. Wake up.”_ **

She hadn’t told him.

She has him under her, pulling at his clothes with her magic until he fills her and she comes with a sob as their fingers link against the mattress.

He loves her and holds her in the fading too-bright afternoon sunlight, and she says nothing.

_i pray the light his soul to take._

“The sorcerer battled the darkness, tethered it to a human soul that could be controlled.”

But the darkness echoes.

And the darkness does not want to be contained.

It does not want to be tethered.

“The sorcerer is the only one with the power to destroy the darkness--once and for all.”

(She hadn’t been able to save him, or anyone, in the other realm.)

(And she wondered: When had she gotten so used to the magic?)

“I love you,” she says. “Killian, I--”

He is looking at her, that look in his eyes--soft and sad and knowing--as she reaches out, offering herself as the tether, a human vessel to contain the darkness.

(A human soul that could be controlled.)

_I love you._

_I love you._

The darkness screams.

**_“Emma!”_ **

\--it’s a swirling mass of nothing, an endless landscape of darkness blacker than night. It’s not even blackness so much as the _absence of light_ , and it’s pouring out of--where?

_Everywhere._

**_“EMMA.”_ **

\--darkness. Blacker than--

Blacker than--

**_“EMMA, WAKE UP.”_ **

Nothing.

Emma blinked, but there was no difference between eyes open and closed. There was nothing to see, and nothing to feel, and a complete absence of ambient sound, except for--

**_“Emma.”_ **

The voice was calm now, and it surrounded her; unfamiliar, but not unknown.

**_“Come back.”_ **

It was calm and sure, the voice she knew from somewhere, commanding her, commanding _her_ , and that--

Emma took a deep breath, and focused--closing her eyes and opening them and found herself in a large, eerily familiar room. Sitting on beige carpet. The walls were lined with polished wooden shelves--full of books--and there were tables--also full of books--and desk lamps with brass fittings, the source of the indirect light that had filtered through her subconscious.

She knew this place. It was the library--the mansion library.

She was lying on the floor of the library in the Sorcerer’s mansion, staring at a face that, like the voice, was unfamiliar but not unknown. She tasted chocolate--movie theater chocolate--an Apollo bar.

She saw a red uniform.

Emma sat up, and the man across from her smiled. It was a strange smile, genuine but empty.

“There you are,” he said in the voice that was unfamiliar but not unknown and she _remembered_ , shifting uncomfortably almost as an instinct; but she was not a little lost girl sitting in the dark anymore. 

She had a home, a family, a happy ending.

He extended a hand to help her up and she ignored it--ignored the way his smile, if it could be called that, widened, as if he had expected nothing less. He herded her to one of the small desks.

Sat down across from her.

Looked at her, and waited, and shifted. Uncomfortably.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said finally.

“Are you the Sorcerer?” Even in her mind, she could hear the capital letters of the title and all it conveyed. Idly, she wondered if he knew of the havoc he had wreaked by allowing his Author loose on the world. Wondered if he knew his Apprentice was dead.

The man shook his head. He was young, dark-skinned and good-looking, and--she could feel the power of him, the depths of it. 

If Regina was a drop of water, he was an ocean.

“Not anymore,” he said, finally answering her question.

“Why am I--” her eyes darted around, taking in the books. They also looked familiar. “Are these all storybooks?”

The man smiled again. Again, it looked empty. And strained.

“They’re empty and irrelevant and we don’t have much time. Listen to me, Emma Swan.”

It was a command--again--and it rankled, but the way he said her full name was oddly imploring. “You have a choice to make here, and you have to make it now.”

“Then stop speaking in riddles and tell me what I’m doing here.”

“It’s simple, actually.” His smile was pained now. “You have a choice to make, Dark One.”

Something inside Emma began to howl even before he said it.

The capital letters of the title and all that it conveyed.

No longer Emma Swan.

_Dark One._

“A choice between Darkness and Light.”

\--

_Clang._

A vicious thrust connects with Emma’s blade and sends her reeling, seriously off-balance for the first time since they started fighting in earnest, and she feels a small spike of worry.

What if this is _not_ how it ends?

\--

“Let me tell you a story,” the man, the Sorcerer, said.

“I thought you were in a hurry.”

“This is a story you need to hear. And Emma--” he leaned forward and she could make out the strange gold flecks in his eyes. Familiar eyes. She had seen these up close before.

_Leave the sword alone_.

“--this time, I need you to listen. For once in your life, pay _attention_.”

Before Emma could protest he held up a hand.

“Your life depends on it.” He nodded at her, his brows drawn, his jaw tight. “Your life and the lives of all the people you love. Every one.”

A feeling flickered through Emma at his words, starting at the base of her spine and curling its way through her chest until it clawed at her heart. _The people she loved_.

Her parents.

Henry.

_Killian_.

“Was that a threat?” It was somewhere between a snarl and a hiss and the man across from Emma sighed, making her even angrier. “Who the _hell_ are you? Who are you to tell me about Darkness and Light and choices and what the _fuck_ am I doing in this godforsaken library?”

He didn’t answer, and the feeling in Emma’s chest tightened around her ribcage.

“How did I get here? _How do I get out_?”

He exhaled and Emma watched his spine stiffen, as if he was steeling himself for something.

“My name is Merlin,” he said, and inside Emma’s head something started to hiss. “And I tell you this story because I am quite familiar with the choice you are about to make--and its consequences.”

“Start. Talking.” Emma issued a command of her own as she raised her hand, as if to--what?

What was she going to do, exactly?

The man--Merlin--seized on her hesitation and pressed on. His voice was once again calm, cool.

Expressionless.

“The reason you are here, Emma,” he said, “is that this is no ordinary mansion.”

Emma rolled her eyes and tried to ignore the hissing inside her head.

He watched her--just for the space of a heartbeat--and nodded.

Started again.

“Let me tell you a story,” he repeated. But this time, there was an edge to the words.

A warning, and when she said nothing, he settled back, though it looked as if he’d long forgotten what a comfortable position was.

“Once upon a very long time ago I was a boy, and I was in love with a beautiful girl.” The left corner of his mouth ticked up in a wan approximation of a wistful smile. “She was fierce and proud and lovely, and she cared deeply for the people she loved.” His voice became a whisper. “I was honored to be among them. But not--”

He stopped, cleared his throat, tried again.

“I was not always as you see me, Emma Swan,” he said.

“Not always a creepy, cryptic weirdo? What a relief.” 

This time, he was the one who got angry.

Almost.

His calm, Emma noticed, never truly broke; emotions, like comfortable sitting positions, were a distant memory to him, and she wondered how old he really was.

“I am older than you can possibly imagine,” he said. “I am immortal, Dark One.”

Emma startled.

“As are you.” His voice was steady again as he continued, but only for a moment. “When I fell in love with Nim--”

And then--his calm cracked. 

_He couldn’t say her name._

Instead, he took another breath. “I had an opportunity to sever myself from the life I had been living. The life, Emma, and the magic. To live a normal life with the woman I loved.”

Another feeling stirred within Emma.

Sympathy.

_Empathy._

She knew this story.

“She had an unfailing sense of justice.” Merlin was still speaking. “And an unquenchable thirst for power. She thought power was the only way to mete out justice, to balance the scales. So when one day she was put before the choice of taking on the Darkness, or staying in the light, she followed the call of Darkness.”

He exhaled a long, defeated breath.

“She thought she could wield its sword for good. She couldn’t. No one can.”

Merlin looked up as Emma saw real emotion flitter across his strangely blank face. Sadness.

Despair.

_Loneliness_.

“So now, Emma, you stand at the same threshold, and I am here to tell you: Leave the sword alone.”

_“When you do something you’re not supposed to do--”_

“The movie theater,” Emma whispered. “You were the usher. You had on a red uniform, and a hat, and--it was you.”

_“Bad things happen, Emma.”_

Merlin nodded.

_“I’ll be waiting for you.”_

“You told me that then, too. To leave the sword alone.”

“I did.” His voice was heavier now, weighted with hints of sadness and exhaustion. “Like I said, Emma, I’ve been waiting for you. I knew that one day you would face this choice.”

“But I still don’t understand.” Emma looked around. “You keep talking about swords. There aren’t any here.” She shrugged. “You talk of choice, but I already took on the Darkness.”

He reached for her hands and Emma felt Merlin’s skin--strangely hot and cold at the same time. Smooth, and yet textured, and so very different from the way Killian’s warmth spread across her skin; the way she could feel him as if he was a part of her whenever they touched.

“How long have I been here?” Emma whispered, pulling her hand back, rubbing at the spot on her wrist that was his favorite. “Where’s Killian?”

\--

The air left Killian’s lungs all at once and he sat down, hard, on the pavement before he could even feel his knees buckle. He thought he’d known what it felt like to have his heart ripped from his body.

He’d been wrong.

This was--it was _absence,_ complete and brutal as he missed something he had never fully recognized while it was there, the way he could _feel her_ when they were together; he only now noticed how strong it had been and how lost he was without it. Lost, with no hope and nothing to fight for, not a shred of hope to hold on to.

This was--

He’d felt like this, once before in his life.

He’d been wrong about that, too, he thought, feeling the dagger in his hand and idly wondering if it would bring her back and rid her of its influence if he--

If he used it, used it on himself, would he become the Dark One?

Killian Jones knew price of using the dagger’s magic to take out its bearer. Had thought about it, strategized for it, debated it for the better part of three centuries in his quest for vengeance against the creature who killed the woman he loved, and still had never been put to the question of whether it was a price he would be willing to pay. 

Darkness. 

Immortality. Centuries-- _millennia_ \--with nothing but his anger, and his hate, and his despair.

Now the woman he loved _was_ the creature of the Darkness, and he knew the answer was, simply, yes.

Yes.

He looked up and saw Regina, grinding her teeth as if she could will the dagger to conjure up Emma; followed her arm to where it wrapped around Henry and felt the stabbing ache turn to a dull pain.

It wouldn’t even be a sacrifice, to see his name take the place of Emma’s--to erase the block lettering of _EMMA SWAN_ on the blade and free her of its power.

To pay its price.

Snow stepped forward, out of David’s embrace, and her hand went to his wrist just above the hilt of the dagger. 

“That’s not the answer, Killian,” she said, her use of his name almost a caress of itself, her voice soft and out of earshot of the others. “We’ll find her. That’s what this family does.”

Family. Home. A happy ending.

She’d _left_ \--all of it.

Him.

She’d _chosen_ it, his Savior, and he knew her, knew why--she needed to act, it’s what _she did_. While he sat here.

“We will _always_ find her,” Snow insisted. Killian looked up at her, not caring that she could see the tears glistening in his eyes.

“Together, Killian,” Snow said. “As a family. We’ll find a way.”

What was it the hero types were always saying--find another way?

He’d battled a Dark One for centuries, after all.

He could find a way to _save_ one.

All in a day’s work for a hero.

Killian’s grip on the dagger loosened, but he could not bring himself to let it go. He couldn’t--

It was the only piece of her he had left.

\--

He takes a step forward.

And another.

He’s playing with the sword--toying with it. Toying with her, a raptor with its prey, and then--

It’s in her face, one smooth, deadly motion and a sword tip inches from her nose.

“No home,” he spits. “No warmth. No family. No _hope_ , Savior.”

He relents, stepping back.

“What’s left?”

\--

_Where was Killian?_

Emma kept rubbing the spot on her wrist, almost convincing herself that she could feel him doing it--that she could feel him _holding on to her_ somehow.

But Killian wasn’t here.

Wherever this was--wherever she was--he _was not_ , and it was an ache.

A void.

Emma _missed_ him. She missed him like she’d never missed anything in her life, like she never knew it was possible to miss anyone or any thing--as if an absolutely essential _part of her_ was missing, and it hurt.

Love was a weapon.

Then Merlin’s hands squeezed hers and brought her back to the moment. “Emma.” Merlin leaned forward, the gold flecks in his eyes now glowing. “Darkness and Light are the human condition. We all have both. We ALWAYS have both.” 

_Hisssssssssssss._

“It’s what you make of them that decides your fate,” he said. “You can follow the Darkness, or you can follow the Light. You can make the choice, Emma Swan.”

The hiss inside Emma’s head turned into a howl again, and with it a stabbing pain started to drum in her temples. It took her several long moments to breathe through it and force the voice back down to a hiss.

“Do you hear it?” Merlin’s eyes were narrow and sharp. “You hear the Darkness whispering?”

Emma just nodded. There was no reason to lie, not when she needed every scrap of information she could get from him.

“This is only the beginning,” he said. “This is only the faint echo of Darkness that can penetrate the walls of this mansion. It’s going to be much louder when you leave.”

“That’s not a choice,” Emma said. “That’s coercion. Are you telling me that if I choose the Darkness, this howling will stop?”

Merlin looked at her, his face unmoving as Emma’s own eyes turned narrow and sharp. “Yes,” he said. “But I beg you, Emma, don’t. There is another way.”

It was an echo in her head and it felt nearly as far away as Merlin’s warning, but it was there: her mother’s voice. _We always find another way._

And her son’s: _That’s what heroes do._

Merlin looked defeated. And tired. Emma shrugged.

_All in a day’s work for a hero_.

“The woman you loved,” Emma said, watching as Merlin’s eyes got shiny for just a second before he focused again. “Did she do good? Did she dispense justice, right her wrongs?”

“No.” The gold flecks in his eyes shone and then disappeared. “She tried. She--failed. Emma, eternity is a very long time. Longer than she could fight. Longer than you can.”

Emma thought of a Storybrooke under the protection of unlimited power. Thought of the monsters and demons and curses she’d be able to break, to defeat, with a flick of her wrist, an ocean of power compared to Regina’s single drop. She thought of Henry growing up safely, under no threat to life or limb; thought of Killian, never again to be taken from her, his smile loving and warm.

Thought of everyone able to live and thrive and grow as her Darkness kept the shadows at bay.

The feeling around her chest eased; its claws retracted.

_Leave the sword alone_.

She couldn’t tell whether it was the memory, or the broken wizard before her.

With a supreme effort she tore herself away from the beautiful image in her mind.

_Find another way_.

Emma looked back at Merlin and said: “What’s the other way?”

And for the first time, Merlin smiled a real smile, and pointed.

This door, unlike the one that had returned Anna and Elsa to Arendelle, was unremarkable.

Emma shrugged again as she opened it, not even looking behind her as she walked through.

**\--**

##    
  


Killian paced.

The movement was the only thing that made him feel as though he was doing something, counting out his measured steps against the soothing boards of the _Jolly Roger_ , each creak and knot exactly where it had been for centuries as he pounded out a rhythm from the port side of the cockpit to the starboard side and back again.

The dagger was holstered in his belt; periodically he ran his fingers across its carvings, tracing the letters of her name with his thumb.

_EMMA SWAN._

Port, and starboard.

Starboard and port.

Killian had let Snow White and Prince Charming pull him to his feet, let them very nearly drag him to their loft to “rest”. He followed Henry up the ladder at the boy’s insistence.

He removed his boots and his jacket and sprawled himself across the small bed with its pillow that still smelled like her--that still smelled like _them_.

Staying in the loft had proved impossible. Killian couldn’t lie there, supine and solitary on the bed in which he had made love to her only hours ago. 

He could not stay there, mere feet away from the smaller bed where Henry slept; though the boy’s eyes watching him descend the ladder quickly put the lie to that illusion. Snow and Charming sat at their dining table, an open bottle of MacCutcheon untouched between them.

Neither of them said a word as he left.

What was there to say?

_Nothing_.

And that’s what they were doing-- _nothing_.

She wasn’t _here_ and that’s what he felt: Nothing. Just letters engraved on a piece of metal where EMMA SWAN should have been.

Regina had slammed the door in his face, hurling obscenities over Robin Hood’s shoulder as she did so. “Come back in the morning, mate,” he suggested.

He had then found himself contemplating the ‘Belle’ button on his talking phone as he stood in front of the closed pawn shop, unwilling to press it. She was most likely doing whatever it was one did in this realm to treacherous, murderous--

Dark Ones.

_EMMA SWAN_.

His heart clenched, the heart so recently stolen and returned to him.

By Belle--sweet, kind Belle, still blinded by love.

Love was a weapon as persuasive and dangerous as magic.

And so Killian found himself pacing the familiar decks of the _Jolly Roger_ instead of disturbing Belle. Belle, who had loved a Dark One even when no one else could--even when he didn’t deserve it--who always found a way to see the man behind the beast and even, once, came close to piercing the Darkness with True Love’s Kiss.

But Emma was not the crocodile; Emma deserved love. Emma was not a beast. She was challenging, headstrong, stubborn, and she was _the other half of himself_.

Stone-cold sober and mind racing, Killian walked, desperate with the need to _find her_ , to _do something_ , and to do it quickly--as quickly as possible.

Save Emma. Whatever the cost.

Port, and starboard.

Starboard and port.

Daylight found him slumped against the mast, his face turned toward the sky and one leg bent at the knee with the other stretched out in front of him. The dagger was still in his hand.

Killian heard a throat clearing at the base of the gangplank.

“Um, ahoy?”

Killian closed his eyes.

“Um, permission to come aboard?” Henry cleared his throat after his voice cracked on the last word. “Killian?”

“Here I am, lad.”

Henry’s gaze was worried.

Knowing.

No thirteen-year-old should have eyes this knowing.

“Killian,” Henry said, and the way he said his name, the way he did not call him ‘Hook’--

“Killian, I have an idea.”

Killian blinked.

“I know it looks hopeless,” the boy said, his voice breaking again. Killian wanted to reach out, to pat his hand, but he still held the dagger, and found himself unable to move, torn between annoyance and something else. “I know it does, but I have an idea.”

_Hope._ A tiny spark, but--

Killian looked up at Henry and nodded. Grinned--a weak, half-hearted thing as he got to his feet and gathered himself. He took a deep breath and felt his willpower realign with his sense of purpose as a surge of energy straightened his spine and pulled back his shoulders.

He caught Henry’s gaze; saw it full of the same purpose. Operation Save Emma Whatever It Takes.

“We have to talk to my grandfather.” Henry’s eyes were burning. “Mr. Gold, he’s--he’s in the asylum. He’ll know where Emma went.”

And like a flint cracked against his hook the tiny little spark of hope burst into flame inside Killian’s chest.

He’d battled a Dark One for centuries, after all--he could find a way to save one.

To love one.

He would find her. He would _always_ find her.

He would always love her.

Love as a weapon against the Darkness.

Just as long as there was still an EMMA SWAN to find, and to love.


	2. The Drowned Sailor

Emma turned and saw that she had stepped out of the front door of a Chinese herbalist. The sidewalk was crowded and the street was busy and she felt-- _ nothing _ .

A very lovely shade of  _ absolutely nothing _ .

It felt like breathing for the first time.

Her mind was completely silent. There was neither hissing nor howling. She thought of Killian, imagined his arm wrapped around her as she walked, and it didn’t hurt.

_ It didn’t hurt _ .

It gave her no pleasure and it caused her no pain and when she thought of him standing in Main Street holding onto the dagger,  _ her  _ dagger, there was nothing. The image came to her suddenly,  _ so strong _ , as if she could feel him holding on to her with it--her parents, her son standing with him--and there was nothing. A complete absence of worry.

It would be fine, or it wouldn’t. It didn’t matter, though the dagger was a problem, Emma decided. She would need to do something about that.

She could handle this.

And she felt--wonderful.

  
  


“Ah,” Merlin said. She hadn’t even taken notice of him walking beside her. “I see you like it?”

Emma felt her face move almost from muscle memory. The smile was both strange and natural, as though her soul was no longer clear on its meaning.

That didn’t matter, either.

  
  


“I guess I do,” she said, and inhaled deeply. She smelled exhaust fumes and street food and old grease and so many  _ people _ , people in varying states of hygiene, all wrapped up in the cacophony of engines and tires and car horns and conversations. 

“We’re in--”

“New York City,” Emma said. The smells and the sounds and the people were all familiar and she didn’t need Merlin to tell her things she already knew.

The smile on his face looked just as empty on his face as it felt on hers. Emma looked around, saw the small stores and takeout pizza and at least two bars. The Subway station off to her left had a red circle and a ‘1’ and under it, 145th St. “Sugar Hill, to be precise. My apartment isn’t far from here. Just a few stops.”

“Lead the way,” she said.

“You can figure out where you want to go,” Merlin said. “I’m sure bail bonds is a lucrative job in a city like this.”

It was. Enough to pay for an apartment and plants and a video game console and everything she and Henry and Killian could possibly need.

  
  


But there was no way she was going into bail bonds here. Not this time.

She nodded, though, as she looked at Merlin. He didn’t need to know that.

He’d find out soon enough.

  
  


The bustle of the streets was really so lovely to watch. Her head was clear of the whispers and the hissing and the window to her right had the kind of pepperoni pizza she’d been craving since she and Henry had gone back to Storybrooke and she had a plan. She pulled out her wallet and pointed to the pizza counter and watched Merlin nod and smile his empty smile and thought that for the next few minutes, at least, she might as well enjoy herself.

  
  


Even if she didn’t quite remember what that meant.

\--

Henry was not afraid of the dark.

Anymore, that is--Henry was not afraid of the dark  _ anymore _ . Only he sort of was, tonight.

He wasn’t afraid of his grandfather, either. That’s what he told himself.

Except he definitely was, tonight. In a dark cell in the basement asylum, stripped of everything that made him Look Important, he still carried himself as though he was a creature to be feared, and it was working.

His grandmother had said it was going to be okay, and Henry wanted to believe her. That’s what it meant to have The Heart of the Truest Believer, didn’t it? It’s going to be ok, and Henry knows that, he  _ does _ , that’s what heroes do, and they were the good guys, all of them. Even Regina.

Even Hook.

But, Henry realized-- _ allowed himself to realize _ \--maybe not his grandfather. Rumplestiltskin.

He looked like the creature from his storybook even in the hospital-issued white linens instead of his scaled coat and for the first time Henry allowed himself to imagine what it must have taken for his grandparents to turn to him for help when they’d learned of the Queen’s curse.

They must have felt so small, and so powerless, and so frightened.

Like him.

But they needed him--Rumplestiltskin--if they were going to find his mom, figure something out, fix the hole that the Darkness had ripped into their lives--

That  _ his mother _ had ripped into their lives.

To save them,  _ to save them _ , Henry reminded himself. She had done it to save the rest of them, that’s what heroes do.

But. She was still  _ gone _ .

Not just in the general, metaphoric sense. Gone, physically.

Essentially.

“Crocodile, we need to talk,” Killian said. Only--he didn’t sound like Killian. He sounded harsh and cold and impatient as he bit off the ends of his consonants.

He didn’t sound remotely afraid.

And his grandfather didn’t have any power just then.

_ His mother did _ .

Henry had watched Killian get up and leave, climb quietly down the ladder, and felt the strangest urge to follow him, like somehow Killian would  _ understand _ , would help him.

He’s not sure why--well, he was actually pretty sure, since the tower, and the Wookiee prisoner gag, and all of those days and nights on the  _ Jolly Roger _ , practicing navigation and tying knots, because Henry knew exactly how much Killian loved his mother.

And they had that in common, now.

Still. 

Henry loved a Dark One, too,  _ True Love _ \--and it was just  _ so obvious _ , really--his grandfather had  _ been _ a Dark One, surely he would know where Emma had gone?

David had looked at him. So did Mary Margaret. They looked at him, then at each other, and back at him, and Henry felt a flare of anger, of  _ something _ , they weren’t seriously going to try and pull “let the adults handle this” after he had just saved their collective asses from--

His grandfather. Who had  _ sent them _ into the make-believe realm, stranded all of them there, and then unleashed the Darkness that his mother had willingly tethered herself to, in order to save Storybrooke and her family.

Right.

But it was an  _ idea _ , and that was what mattered right then, doing something,  _ anything _ , to save his mom. “He was a Dark One,” Henry said, stating the obvious and feeling the wetness on his cheeks. “And Aunt Belle--she’ll know things, too. We just need to  _ find  _ Emma, right?”

It would be a start, at least, and they had done more with less before, hadn’t they? And as they stared at him--his grandparents who, he knew, were just as lost and confused as he was, Henry found himself missing Killian. 

Killian, who barely even blinked before following him to the asylum and to his grandfather.

They had to save Emma, whatever it took. 

Killian understood that.

“Crocodile,” Killian repeated.

Impatiently.

Killian didn’t look afraid, either, not at all. 

Henry stood up a little straighter.

Captain Hook had never been afraid of Rumplestiltskin, and that man--his Darkness--was gone, leaving only Mr. Gold behind. 

It was hard to think about that. And the reasons why.

“Haven’t you heard, Captain? I’m not that man any more.” The words were barely more than a wheeze, thick and sickly, and Captain Hook’s expression darkened as he reached for the dagger at his hip.

“Perhaps,” Killian said. “But Dark Ones are clever like that, clever enough to make everyone believe that they've really changed.”

Mr. Gold giggled. “A fact you’re about to learn all over again, aren’t you?” 

Killian opened his mouth to respond.

But Henry wasn’t afraid. He  _ wasn’t _ , and he was going to--

He was his mother’s True Love and he was going to help save her, no matter what it took.

Starting now.

“You say you’re not that man any more? Then prove it, Grandpa,” Henry said, stepping forward until he felt Killian’s arm across his chest, stopping him. “Prove it, and help us find my mom.”

Mr. Gold cocked his head and Henry refused to back down.

For the first time, Henry saw the crocodile; there was something in his grandfather’s expression that made Henry’s skin crawl. He felt Killian’s eyes on him and saw a small smile and thought that maybe he wasn’t his mother’s  _ only _ True Love.

It was a comforting thought.

“I need to know what’s going on inside Emma’s head now,” Killian said.

“And I would like to see my wife,” Mr. Gold said. “I know she’s here. What do you say we make a deal?”

A flash of anger broke through Killian’s calm as he said, slowly, “No. Deals.” He shifted, turned to look back toward Henry. “Belle isn’t here.”

That was a lie, Henry knew. Belle was outside, waiting for them; Killian had stopped to give her a hug and put his hand on her shoulder while they whispered to each other for a few minutes before he convinced Nurse Ratched to let them in.

Judging by his grandfather’s face, he knew it too, and Henry felt himself deflate--all of the air, and energy, draining out of him when he exhaled. He’d gotten his hopes up.

That usually worked for him.

“She doesn’t want to see you,” Henry said. “Don’t you get that? None of us want to see you. None of us want anything to do with you. You keep promising you’re going to change and you never do--you just let us down, over and over, even after my dad died for you.” He wiped the tears from his eyes, feeling the heel of Killian’s hand on his shoulder, a one-armed hug. It was nothing like the kinds of hugs his grandfather gave, or the few he remembered from his father, but Henry felt the weight of it all the same.

“Let’s just go, Killian,” Henry said, unable to keep the bitterness from his tone. “He’s not going to help us. He’s never going to change.”

Killian just looked at him, silent and serious and considering. He didn’t blink and Henry felt the tell-tale wetness on his cheeks again as he held his breath, waiting.

Killian nodded, gestured at the door with his chin, not even turning back to face Mr. Gold again.

“Wait.”

Henry almost stopped.  _ Almost _ . But Killian nudged him forward--just two more steps--until his hand brushed the doorknob.

“She’s at the mansion.”

Behind him, Killian exhaled. Long and slow, forcibly pushing the air out of his lungs.

“The sorcerer’s mansion?”

“Of course.” His grandfather smirked and Henry saw his tooth glitter. “What, did you think there was a secret vault of Darkness somewhere? The Sorcerer created the dagger and tethered it to the first Dark One. His mansion exists in between realms and worlds. That is where your Miss Swan will have gotten to.” 

Killian’s eyes darkened and Mr. Gold’s smirk turned into a smile and he giggled again. “Ah, Captain, the location of such happy memories, isn’t it? Strange how history repeats itself--how your heart has, once again, been taken from you and forced you to the mansion.”

Killian’s face was ash-white and Henry’s jaw dropped open. It was Henry’s turn to brace his arm against Killian. “Thanks. And don’t worry, we’ll make sure to tell Aunt Belle what an asshole you are.”

Killian exhaled a laugh through his nostrils and Henry suppressed a stab of pain at what Emma’s reaction would have been, if she’d heard him swear.

“Remember, Captain,” Mr. Gold said. “Things never work out the way you think they will.”

Killian started to turn; it was Henry’s turn to push him gently forward.

The door to the asylum cell slammed shut behind them.

\--

It became a sort of processional.

Killian took the lead. Henry followed.

Belle said, “I’m really good at research,” and Killian couldn’t stop himself smiling.

Charming and Snow White, and Snow said: “Remember what I said about this family, Killian.”

“I’m not one of your subjects, milady. I know your family always look for the hope speech, but I--”

She put her hand on his wrist and forced him to stop, to face her. “You’re a part of this family, too, Killian--we’re going to find a way to save Emma.  _ Together _ . Because that’s what this family does.” Dave, standing behind his wife, looked him in the eye and nodded, his jaw tight and firm and resolute.

Snow White smiled and said, “Don’t make me remind you again, Killian.”

Regina was having none of it.

“This is not some goddamn hero walk in a bad action movie,” she said as she  _ poof _ ed them to the mansion entryway and flung the door open with a flick of her wrist.

Killian tried not to roll his eyes but Snow beat him to it: “Yes, that was much less dramatic.”

“Did I or did I not get us here?”

Killian said nothing as he walked in, but winked at Snow.

His memories of the place were hazy, the scale of the mansion larger than he remembered. As everyone bustled around him, Killian knew instinctively that if Emma had been here, she no longer was. The mansion felt cold and empty and useless and Killian wondered what game the crocodile had been playing at by sending them here.

“I don’t think she’s here,” Belle said.

“Nor do I,” Killian admitted.

“The library is enormous, though. I remember some excellent texts, some even in the Sorcerer’s own words. He created the dagger and bound it to the first Dark One, tethering the Darkness to a human soul to keep it from running loose across the realms.”

Of course she would know. One less concern, then, but--

“Belle.” Killian kept his voice low and his words as calm as he could muster. “If we find her--”

Her gaze was expectant. Sympathetic.

“I need to know about True Love’s Kiss. Why it didn’t work for you and the crocodile.”

She nodded. She’d been expecting him to ask, he could tell, and he could tell that he wasn’t going to like her answer. “It did work. It awoke the man behind the beast. But--Rumple got scared. Scared of a life without power.”

Killian closed his eyes. 

“He pulled away from me and in that moment the Darkness regained its hold on him forever. You know--” she hesitated. “A curse isn’t a curse when the person  _ wants _ it. Killian--”

“I’m not asking for myself,” he said. His words were sharp, quick. “I was thinking of the lad. He’s broken curses before.”

Emma loved him. He knew she did; he could  _ feel _ it, and he had no way to name the depths of what he felt for her. It didn’t matter. He felt it. But Killian knew the facts.

He was a villain.

Villains didn’t get happy endings.

If-- _ when _ \--they found her--

Henry had helped her bring back the happy endings once already, after all.

“The thing I’ve learned about the Darkness is that it doesn’t change who they are. It just makes it easier. To stop trying, do you understand? To be the version of themselves that is the easiest, that causes the least amount of pain to themselves, no matter the cost to everyone else. Rumple is a coward and the Darkness did nothing to change that, but the things he feared became more wrapped up in his power.” Belle’s voice was quiet even though every word drove straight into his heart as she shared with him the knowledge that she had given years of her life and her memory and her heart into understanding. “Emma will be the same, in her own way. The Darkness will prey on her perception of herself, but everything she is now, it was always a part of her. The things she cares about--the things she fears-- anything that might keep those at bay will seem worth it.”

“Hook!” A voice was calling him from the library. He ignored it.

Emma  _ was _ afraid, Killian knew. He knew it in the ways she whispered in the dark and in all of the things she left unsaid, though never unfelt. Nothing frightened Emma Swan more than wanting things--things like home.

Or family.

Or love.

Nothing frightened Emma Swan more than the possibility of losing those things.

“Hook!” The call came again; again, he ignored it.

“I know how you feel about her, Killian,” Belle said. “But be careful. It’s far easier to hate a Dark One than it is to love one.”

“Hey!” Regina appeared in the doorway. “Killian!”

Killian turned slowly, her use of his name taking a moment to register in the recesses of his brain. 

Finally, he said, “Yes, Your Majesty?”

He tried to keep a civil tongue. He failed. Just a little.

Regina’s expression was--gentle. Her impatience was routine. Her eyes were worried. She pushed her hair out of her face and walked toward him and she looked tired. Killian Jones had never, in their many-decades’ acquaintance, seen the Evil Queen look quite like she did just then.

Remorseful.

“Henry thinks he’s found something.”

“In the library?” Killian started to walk in that direction.

“Hey,” Regina said. She grabbed his arm to stop him. He turned, an eyebrow raised, and saw her look shift again as she dropped her hand. She smiled a wan smile. “Sorry. Listen, I just want to say that I know what Emma did for me. What she did for all of us, but especially what she did for me.”

Killian stood silent, watching.

“So I need to know--are we going to have a problem?”

“No,” Killian said. The syllable had an edge sharp enough to cut. “We need your help.”

Anything to get to Emma.   
Anything to stop the Darkness.

And the sooner they did the former--the less likely that the latter would have destroyed the love of his life.

\--

The sign said “Washington Heights Dental Arts” and Emma laughed. It tasted empty.

She followed the former Sorcerer through a small door next to the self-proclaimed creative dentist and into a tiny elevator that bucked more than slid.  _ 1, 2, 3, 4 _ lights lit up and the doors slid--bucked--open to reveal a hallway. Two steps outside the elevator and he stopped in front of a large metal door, poorly installed and brown paint chips littering the floor, clearly put in as an afterthought.

Not that the decor of the hallway was anything to boast about, but the door was reinforced and Emma counted three extra locks in addition to the standard-issue deadbolt.

“You rented Fort Knox?” 

Merlin smiled and it sparked a memory of Killian,  _ I don’t know what that means, love _ as he smiled at her in response to her mentions of pop culture or technology. Technology he understood, to a point, but pop culture would be forever out of his reach and--it  _ didn’t hurt _ . 

The memory, it didn’t hurt, and she liked it, liked how much it didn’t hurt, and the brief moment of confusion as she realized it  _ should _ hurt quickly passed as she pointed at the door. 

She would get back to Killian soon enough. As soon as she finished doing what needed to be done.

“That’s pretty solid,” Emma said.

“The previous tenants were robbed, or so they say. But steel is a decent alternative to a protection spell, and less obvious. I prefer to blend in.”

The apartment was more spacious than the hallway would suggest and supremely impersonal, all Goodwill furniture and IKEA knockoffs. Emma felt relief at the utter absence of individuality and relaxed, letting her thoughts wander without accompanying them. She walked to the window while Merlin busied himself in the kitchen making tea. Outside it was hot and muggy and loud, just the way the city always was at this time of year; she inhaled and exhaled and ignored Merlin’s meaningless, endless stream of rambling words until there was a cup shoved directly at her. She turned around.

Merlin looked expectant, as though he was waiting for an answer to a question he had just asked, and Emma smiled. Another breath and she calmly knocked the cup out of his grip as her hand closed around his wrist, twisting his arm behind his back. There was a cry of pure pain that she ignored as readily as she had the chatter and she forced him to his knees.

Since they had walked through the door--since he had told her the story--Emma had tried to come up with a different option. Another way. But this was the most efficient, most expedient course of action.

“Now then,” Emma said, and relaxed her grip a fraction. Merlin was panting too hard. “Trust me when I say that I take no pleasure in this.”

It was true. There was no gratification in subduing Merlin at all. Merlin was just another skip who had information she needed--nothing more than the satisfaction of a job well-done and this, after all  _ had been _ her job, once. The violence was not pleasurable, but it was not arduous either. It simply was.

Necessary.

Merlin’s breathing slowed down a bit, returning to a more normal rate, and Emma bent down to whisper in his ear.

“I know you have the sword,  _ usher _ .”

She needed to get back to Killian. To Henry. 

But first, she needed the sword.

Emma could feel more than see him swallow hard, heard his breath catch.

Felt the tremble in his arm from where she held it, exerting  _ just the right amount _ of pressure. 

“And you’re going to tell me where it is. Now.”

**\--**

The storybooks were empty.

Henry knew that. 

But there was something in his brain that was telling him to  _ keep going _ . He’d been the Author less than a day, but--

“Can you rewrite the story, lad?”

And he’d had to say no, because that wasn’t how the magic worked. Plus, he’d broken the pen. For just a second, Killian had looked so  _ angry _ and Henry’s gut twisted and he felt it, he felt all of it.

Everything.

So he kept looking, didn’t stop himself pulling each book off the shelf, opening it, tossing it aside. The pile behind him was getting pretty big, and all of it took time. 

Like,  _ so much time _ .

Killian was going to wear out the floor from pacing any second now, either that or Regina was going to blow the ceiling off with a few fireballs just to have something to do.

She had that look in her eyes.

“We know she’s not here.” It was the tenth or eleventh time Regina and Killian were having this conversation, and it was getting old. Predictable. Henry could have mouthed the words himself when Regina said, “So where would she have gone?”

And that took time too.

Belle had taken over a desk that almost groaned under the weight of the books she had on it and kept calling Killian to look at something with her. Henry wasn’t sure if that was a distraction or if she had actually found anything, but at least  _ her _ books weren’t freaking empty.

“Another shelf done,” David called.

And so it went: Henry and David and Snow pulling books that were empty (he knew they were empty) and Belle making notes while Regina alternated between the table and the shelf.

“I get antsy when I don’t know who to hate,” she said. “Or what, in this case.”

Killian stopped his pacing to run his fingers across the dagger. He’d started doing that a lot, like he could--

Like he could  _ feel her _ .

“Killian, why do you keep doing that?”

His fingers stopped as he looked at Henry. “Doing what?”

“You keep touching the dagger. Why?”

“Lad, I don’t know.” And he sounded exhausted.

“The dagger doesn’t work when Emma isn’t in this realm,” Regina snapped. “We’ve been over this. It’s useless.”

“Wait, though,” Mary Margaret said. “I think I understand what Henry means. What we’ve been looking for is a way to track Emma--what if we’ve had it this entire time?”

“Like a locator spell,” Henry said.

“Or a compass,” Mary Margaret said and her small smile was all for Killian. 

“You think the dagger might be some kind of tether?” His grandfather was tall and grim and looked like he wished he had his sword as he turned to Belle. “Is that possible?”

Belle shrugged, already pulling a book back out of her pile. “I suppose it could be, the dagger and the Dark One are bound by the same magic, let me just--”

Regina’s voice could cut glass. “You don’t  _ know _ ? You were married to the damn Dark One!”

Belle looked, just for a second, stricken, and then her expression hardened, her mouth open as if she wanted to speak and couldn’t remember what words were in a room that was suddenly quiet enough to hear a pin drop.

“I’m sorry,” Regina said; she looked from Belle to Killian to Mary Margaret and back to Belle before she nodded at Henry. “I’m sorry.”

“Okay.” 

And so it went.

But it was the storybooks; Henry was surprised, but somehow  _ not surprised at all _ when the next book he pulled off the shelf wasn’t empty. It was the tingle in his arm he remembered from the first time Mary Margaret had given him the book, and the first time he had seen her and realized she was Snow White, the way he felt when he’d held the pen and the power he’d felt when he’d broken it. So while Killian and Belle disagreed over an Elvish translation about tethers Henry shouted into the quiet library.

Triumph. Victory. Or at least--finally--hope.

“What’s that, Henry?” David said.

“Emma’s here, somewhere, in this world. Outside of Storybrooke.” 

“There’s no magic outside of Storybrooke,” Regina said. “The dagger won’t even work there--that’s why Gold brought the magic through the Wishing Well in the first place. That’s why the dagger didn’t work when Hook tried to summon her. Are you sure, Henry?”

Instead of answering, Henry pointed to the first non-blank page he’d seen in hours, the unmistakable cartoon image of his mother in her red leather jacket walking next to a tall, good-looking man on the kind of busy city street that only existed in this realm. He turned the page and saw a picture of a sword, jagged and engraved just like the dagger, broken at the tip. 

Henry could almost make out a name on the hilt.

“Why does that book suddenly have pictures? I thought there was one Author, and one storybook.” Regina had that look in her eyes again.

“But we all know the Author could, and did, rewrite things.” Mary Margaret said. Obviously she recognized the look too. “Regina, think of the extra pages you found about Robin Hood.”

“Maybe this is Emma’s story,” Henry said. He flipped through the pages, which were mostly full. “Maybe this is like another volume of the story.”

“Does it matter?” Killian snapped. “If Emma’s in the Land Without Magic, she’ll be vulnerable there.”

“Ah, yes, you do have  _ personal _ experience with that little side effect, don’t you?” Regina said. For just a second Henry could see the blood on his father’s couch and Neal and his grandfather and the wound Hook had made--

“But it might be for the best, all things considered.” Regina was cold and calculating and it snapped Henry out of the memory. “We have to remember that when we find Emma, we don’t know if she’ll be  _ our _ Emma.”

Silence. 

And tension. 

And something cold slithering up Henry’s spine.

“There’s no Saviors in this town any more,” Regina said, sad and gentle and blunt all at once.

“We have to get to her,” Killian said. “Regina, find the portal if you can.”

Belle stood up. “If this translation is correct, I don’t think you have to worry about finding a specific door. Since you have the dagger, you’re likely to end up wherever she is. I’ll keep working, see if I can find anything else about the sword in these books.” She took a picture of the illustration in Henry’s book with her phone. “Call me, Killian. Keep me updated. Let me know when you find her.”

Belle sounded reassuring but Killian’s smile was fake and small and pained and brought Mary Margaret up behind him, even though she only came up to his shoulder when she put her hand on his wrist.

“Hey,” she said. Her voice was the aural equivalent of  _ home _ and Henry felt like if he closed his eyes, he’d be back in the loft with his grandparents. And his mother.. “At least finding a door is a lot easier than climbing a beanstalk.”

“Perhaps, milady. But Regina’s not wrong. What if we find something worse than a giant on the other side?” Killian sighed heavily. “That story didn’t exactly have a happy ending.”

“Nonsense.” Mary Margaret was suddenly every inch the bandit princess Snow White. “It brought you here, Killian. It brought you to Emma.” 

  
  


“It brought you home.”


	3. Walk On The Wire

Four very disparate people--a man, two women, and a teenage boy--walked out of a utility closet door into the middle of the Spring Street station mezzanine and out onto the pavement of a New York City street. 

No one noticed--not one eyebrow raised on any of the people rushing past them up the Avenue of the Americas, heading uptown, or crossing Spring Street into SoHo. Henry looked around, looked at his companions--Captain Hook, Snow White and the Evil Queen--and then nodded.

Killian’s jaw muscles were clenched the same way they had been clenching for hours now, his expression wavering between heartbroken and furious ever since he’d picked up the dagger and tried to summon--

Regina looked like her spine had turned into an iron rod pulling her shoulders back and forcing her chin up high, her lips a straight line of worry even through her mask of impatience and disapproval, and Mary Margaret--

His grandmother looked at him as if she knew exactly what he was thinking and had everyone’s number, which--she totally did. She answered Henry’s nod with one of her own, grave and serious, deferring silently to his superior knowledge of New York City and the Land Without Magic with absolute trust and conviction, and he really wanted to hug her.

But there was no time for that, and certainly no occasion for it, so Henry just pointed at a set of stone steps. “We have to go up here,” he said. “I remember this.”

Just like with the storybook, he didn’t know how he knew, but he did: the door to Neal’s old apartment on Wooster Street was unlocked, his stuff still gathering dust on shelves and tables. The only sign of absence was the smell of old air conditioner freon and stale humidity, so the first thing Henry did was open the windows. He watched the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams and tried not to think about the only afternoon he had ever spent there talking to his father; heard the footsteps of his family as they carefully walked across creaking floorboards. A vinyl record out of its sleeve sat next to the turntable. 

“Only You.”

His mom loved that song.

There were dishes in the drying rack and couch cushions piled up to make a side rest and a notepad and pen on the kitchen table. There was a jagged edge where the last page had been torn off, like someone was in a hurry. It looked like Neal had just stepped out for a few minutes--except for the dust still swirling lazily in the air.

There was a curious sense of both presence and absence, as if the apartment knew its tenant was never coming back but kept paying the rent just in case. Henry looked up and saw Killian taking everything in, running his hand over the empty surfaces and leaving fingerprints in the dust. Their eyes met and his face mirrored Henry’s thoughts so exactly--

It threw him for a loop for a long, long moment.

Then Killian stepped forward and patted Henry’s shoulder and said nothing. Henry had to blink back tears for another long, long moment and when Regina’s calm, acerbic voice cut their moment to shreds with a pointed, “Well, we’re here. Now what?” Henry was grateful.

But he didn’t have an answer.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he said. “But--I--back at the mansion, I felt this--pull. Like we had to come here. Like it was important.”

Mary Margaret and Killian both said, “Trust your instincts.” In unison. 

Henry exhaled; Regina rolled her eyes and tried to pretend she was above it all instead of just as anxious as the rest of them. Henry almost grinned at how very, very hard she was working at it.

_ Almost _ . Urgency crawled under his skin and he could feel it in his head like a missile countdown from an action movie,  _ find your mother and do it fast _ on an endless loop of ardent insistence while three adults looked at him for their next steps.

It was unsettling even though it was exactly what he wanted: To be in charge of this Operation.

“I don’t have all the answers,” Henry said, shaking his head and looking at his remaining mother and reminding himself that in spite of all appearances, Regina  _ cared _ \--and she was a great weapon to have in their corner. “But that’s why we’re here, right? To figure them out?”

“Yes, lad.” Killian’s voice was patient and accepting and steadfast and very reassuring in a way that felt both natural and weird while they were standing in Henry’s father’s apartment. He took a step forward, picked up the notepad and frowned. “That is exactly what we are here for. Now--who can find me a pencil?”

\--

Killian held up the notepad, Bae’s messy scrawl peeking through the scribbled graphite. 

_ Chinese Remedies. Amsterdam + 125th _ .

According to Henry, it was an address: The next stop on their wild goose chase.

“Let’s go there,” Henry said, so predictably full of energy and sanguine enthusiasm.

Let the boy have his hope. 

Killian just wanted answers. He just wanted  _ Emma _ \--whatever it took. He would fight for a hundred years if he needed to, but if Regina was right and the woman, or creature, they encountered was not  _ their _ Emma any more--

Seeing Emma lost to the darkness, beyond hope, might be more than his soul could bear; and yet here they were wishing on a note Neal had made more than a year ago. It was foolish--they had no notion of what he might have been looking for or why he thought it worth writing down. They might be wasting time; more time that they  _ did not have _ .

But one thing Killian Jones had learned in the time since he’d met Emma--since he’d  _ come home _ , as Snow put it--was that it was never foolish to have hope in Henry. He had learned that darkness was a foe, just like any other.

It could be vanquished.

It could be conquered.

They would prevail in the end.

They  _ would _ .

Killian looked at Henry’s eager face and smiled. “Lead the way, lad,” he said, and for a moment believed with everything he was that they would come out victorious.

All in a day’s work for a hero.

\--

_ Chinese Remedies _ .

It looked like every herbalist in every movie Henry had ever seen, as though a production designer had built a set with the perfect amount of dim light and lucky cat figurines on crowded shelves full of prop jars that said things like  _ Bull Testicles _ and  _ Frog Spawn _ and  _ Eye of Newt _ , though those seemed more like a Harry Potter movie than anything else. Potions ingredients and a cauldron and Henry could almost picture Severus Snape but the owner looked nothing like that--wrinkles and grey hair, dressed in black silk and red embroidery. Either way it was fiction come to life, hollow and disconcerting, and then the man looked at them and Henry understood.

“Give the people what they expect,” he said, his accent crisp and British as he gestured at the shelves and his outfit. Henry could feel Killian’s hand relax where it had landed on his back, wary and vigilant, as the owner smiled. “They buy more when they think you look the part. Not you, though, Henry.”

Killian’s hand tensed again.

“You’ve come for the real thing, haven’t you?”

He walked out from behind the counter and locked the front door, flipping the sign to CLOSED. Then he motioned them all to a back room. This room did not look like a movie set--it was too random and too mismatched, though Henry could sense the underlying order in the books on the shelves and the lamps on the tables. The man watched them just as Henry watched him: Watched Mary Margaret clock exits and escape routes, watched Regina’s hands clench as if siphoning remnant wisps of magic from the air, watched Killian’s hand fist on the shoulder of Henry’s jacket, ready to pull or push or shove him out of harm’s way.

“Sit,” the man said, pointing at a ratty old couch and a few chairs that looked like leftovers from a school cafeteria. “Tea?”

Mary Margaret was polite as she declined.

Regina was--not. “Who are you? How do you know my son’s name?”

Henry winced; so much in this place was flammable, but the man was calm and unfazed. “You may call me the Dragon,” he said. 

“That’s a name?”

“I have worn many identities across time and realms, much as you have, Regina. But ‘Dragon’ is what stuck; not unlike ‘Evil Queen’ or ‘Captain Hook’.” He turned back to Mary Margaret. “Is David not joining us?”

“He’s home with our son,” Mary Margaret said softly as the Dragon nodded as though he had expected her answer.

“Killian? Did you want tea?”

Killian was mute as he shook his head.

The Dragon shrugged. “I don’t have enough cups anyway.”

“Then why--”

The Dragon’s eyes flashed. “To prove my point, Regina. I know that you, unlike your son, need to see things to believe them. And what you are about to embark on will require belief in things not seen; respect for powers which you even you have never dared to disturb.”

There was silence in the room; Henry could do nothing but watch this improbable man.

And then he leaned forward. “So here you are, in someone else’s story,” the Dragon said, and Henry felt a twitch of recognition at the words. “Courage” --he looked at Mary Margaret-- ”Power” --Regina-- ”and the Heart and Soul of the endeavor.” These last were directed at Killian and at Henry as the Dragon nodded slowly. “You will need all of these to prevail against the Darkness.”

“Where’s Emma?” Killian’s voice shredded the spell the Dragon’s words had begun to weave around them, and Henry looked up.

Killian looked about as on edge as Henry had ever seen him, and worry sparked a small ember in Henry’s gut. The strain was taking its toll on all of them.

They needed to find Emma--soon.

The Dragon didn’t answer. He asked another question.

“What do you know of the Broken Sword?”

\--

“The sword, Merlin.”

He was sweating. On his knees--on the floor of his crappy uptown apartment--his torso twisted at an uncomfortable angle in a futile attempt to relieve the pressure on his arm, the Sorcerer was sweating.

It was a very efficient method of subduing an opponent and Emma felt satisfaction that her life in bail bonds had given her such useful skills.

She appreciated their effectiveness.

“Don’t do this, Emma.” Merlin’s voice was clipped and when she tightened her fingers he emitted a yelp. Emma appreciated that, too. “Someday, perhaps there will be a person who is worthy to hold that much power--”

_ Leave the sword alone. _   
Darkness and a chocolate bar and a red velvet uniform.

“--and not let it darken their soul--”

An animated character dancing on a big screen, music and the smell of popcorn and the usher’s smile.

Merlin’s smile, with eyes so serious.

_ Find another way _ .

“Please, Emma. Please don’t.”

Darkness and more darkness under a starry sky. Hulking stones and whispering voices and black cloaks around shimmery skin. A voice inside her head saying,  _ do it,  _ **_do it_ ** _ , give us the blade, it is  _ **_ours_ ** _. _

She could keep the darkness--use the sword for good, to protect people.

_ Pull the blade, it is  _ **_yours_ ** _. It has been yours since the dawn of time,  _ **_take it_ ** _. _

She didn’t need another way.

“Maybe someday, Emma,” Merlin pleaded. “Not today. Fight, Emma. You can  _ choose _ Light over Darkness.”

Emma twisted a little more, and Merlin gasped. “Don’t make me do permanent damage,” she said. “There’s no need.”

His voice across decades, across lifetimes, across the distance of time and space and impossibility, pleading--

_ Leave the sword alone _ .

Beneath her, Merlin moaned in pain. “Emma.”

It was nothing more than a whisper.

“Emma, you still have so much worth fighting for.”

But she didn’t want to fight.

(Take it, it’s yours.)

(It’s your birthright, your fate, your destiny.)

(Your salvation.)

_ Leave the sword alone. _

“Can’t you feel it, Emma? Can’t you feel--”

The spot on her wrist just above her tattoo itched.  _ Killian _ .

“The sword, sorcerer.” 

Merlin gasped. “This will--unleash terror and..power. If you kill me you. Won’t be able to--stop. Me.” He was panting hard now. “Leave the. Sword. Or there is. No going back.”

There was silence for a long moment, just the buzzing city outside and the odd snippet of bird call and the painful breaths of the man kneeling before her. 

“Did you foresee  _ this _ , sorcerer?” She wouldn’t use his name, for fear of conjuring the memory of the usher again. There was a hum in the air; Emma leaned forward, twisted his wrist while pulling it up and then she heard it--thin, reedy, nearly unintelligible--ripped from the man at her mercy against his will.

_ Wall. _

Just that one word. But his eyes cut left, and Emma smirked.

“Yes,” he breathed. “I did.”

\--

“This sword?” Henry held up the picture Belle had texted him. 

The Dragon sniffed. “Yes,” he said. “Crude though this drawing may be.”

“Do you know--” Henry was nearly tripping over his words “--why we found it in this storybook? Why it wasn’t with the others? Why is this story separate? I thought the Author--”

Killian stifled a sigh. It wasn’t relevant.

“It’s not relevant,” the Dragon said. “The Author is just another one of Merlin’s many failed experiments; our stories happen irrespective of who may be writing them down, boy.”

Regina exhaled with what might have been relief, and Killian could not deny the sliver of emotion feeling suddenly rushing through his veins. Snow White smiled very softly at him and there was hope, tiny bubbles of it--

“Merlin?” The Dragon’s words re-registered and Killian’s focus was wholly on him again. 

“The man you know as the Sorcerer.”

“Aye,” Killian said. “I’ve heard of him.” They were not happy tales. Capricious and even cruel, Merlin was said to have his own views on what the world was.

On what it should be.

And they had, as Regina might say, personal experience with the Sorcerer’s whims. With his mistakes.

“You are correct to be worried, Captain,” the Dragon said, meeting his eyes with understanding. “Merlin meddled with forces that he should not have. His attempts to control the Darkness went badly awry and this day was, in some sense, inevitable from the moment that Rumplestiltskin modified the Dark Curse.”

“He created it,” Regina interrupted, and was silenced by the Dragon’s look of unrelenting pity.

“No, Regina. He didn’t.” The Dragon shook his head. “But by creating the Savior, Rumplestiltskin shifted the forces of Light and Darkness and forced Merlin out of hiding.” He spoke with thinly-veiled contempt.

“You knew about the curse?” Snow asked.

“There is not so much power in the world, Snow White, for us to be unaware of each other. The Dark Curse cast by Regina reached even into this world and the haven I had made for myself here.”

That wasn’t relevant, either.

“And the sword?” Killian demanded.

“The sword.” The Dragon shuddered, suddenly looking like his reptilian namesake. “You need to understand that forging that sword cost Merlin  _ everything _ . The sword carries that weight to this very day. The tests that you will face, Captain, will be greater than you can possibly imagine.”

“She  _ will _ seek it, and she will take it. You will not be able to stop her.”

Killian opened his mouth, prepared to argue.

“You’ve fought the Darkness for centuries, Killian; you understand its nature better than most. Perhaps there is a person who is worthy to hold that much power and not let it darken their soul.” The way the man’s eyes lingered on Killian was enough to send a shiver through him.

“Emma is the Savior,” Killian said. “I believe in her. She can handle anything.”

And he wanted that to be true--he  _ wanted _ to believe. But hope was such a very fleeting thing.

The Dragon smiled. It was not an encouraging expression.

“Perhaps,” he said again.

“How do we find her?”

The man’s expression became even less pleasant. “You already have everything you need.”

Killian stiffened, angry words on the tip of his tongue--

Henry’s hand reached up and touched his shoulder. “He means the dagger,” he said, and his eyes landed on the Dragon even as he was pointing at Killian’s jacket and the pocket where the dagger lay heavy against his side.

“You think the dagger works here?” Henry asked, and it was so far removed from his boyish enthusiasm; rather it was pitifully hopeful as he leaned, very slightly, into Killian’s arm where he’d wrapped it around the boy’s shoulders.

“It doesn’t,” Regina said, and though she said it softly, Henry still flinched.

“Ah,” the Dragon said. “But it does.”

“How?” Her Majesty’s royal eyebrow was arched and wary. “There is no magic here.”

“But there is,” the Dragon whispered.

Slowly, Killian pulled his arm back from Henry--reached into his pocket, felt the engraving on the metal, traced the letters there.

“Remember, Killian, the nature of love.”

Love was a weapon.

“Love is giving someone the ability to destroy you--and trusting them  _ not _ to.”

Only the Dragon’s lips had not moved; the dagger shook a bit.

“Emma Swan,” Killian said, painfully aware that he sounded just as hopeful--just as pitiful--as Henry had done. Killian felt his hand forced to the left and forward as they all started to follow.

None of them looked back.

\--

North. The dagger pulled them north--he noticed the street numbers ascending and the sun behaved much the same as it ever did, though it was difficult to maintain one’s bearings when the buildings were so bloody  _ tall _ . Killian had never been so grateful for this small piece of synchronicity as he was with an ancient weapon in his hands and three people following it--and  _ him _ \--amidst the noise and bustle and hot muggy air.

And all the time he could think only of Emma.

_ Emma _ as they followed the numbered streets upward.  _ Emma _ as he was pulled sharply to the east and dead-ended on a street called “Pinehurst Ave”.  _ Emma _ as the dagger trembled in his hands, toward a low building abutting what looked like a park;  _ Emma  _ up the stairs and willingly held himself back to leave the lock-picking in Snow White’s capable hands.

He needed the moment to brace himself, for he knew whatever they would find on the other side of this large metal door four floors above the ground would be bad.  _ Emma _ was behind this door. He knew it as certainly as he knew his own name, he felt it deep in the marrow of his bones, and  _ all was not right with the world _ . Or with Emma.

_ Oh, to hell with it _ . 

(If it wasn’t already too late--?)

He stepped forward again as Snow struggled.

Looked at the door hinges. And the lock. And his hook.

He smiled. It was not a cheerful expression.

_ Emma _ ,  _ I’m coming. _

\--

Emma turned in slow motion as they entered the apartment and Killian wondered if this might be a dream--a nightmare--something surreal and removed and not part of his life at all.

It  _ should not _ be happening, could not be real, not when they had found Emma, found the right apartment in this strange city of millions of souls, found a tiny needle in an impossible haystack and conquered, picked the lock and here he was with Snow White and the Evil Queen and The Heart of the Truest Believer and there--

There was Emma.

She stood in the middle of the room, her stance deceptively loose the way Killian had taught her as her muscles poised to contract into action, a small smile on her lips, there--

There was a man on the floor.

Merlin.

He was prostrate, shaking, Emma’s hands around his outstretched wrist and her left heel on his neck, pushing his head down, blood pooling below it, there--

There was a hole in the wall.

Her eyes took him in, expressionless, roamed over her mother and her son and Regina and Killian. It was perfunctory, merely gathering information; she nodded, and then she turned to look at the hole in the wall.

Visible through the opening there was--

“Ah,” she said, her voice just as devoid of emotion as her eyes, except for perhaps a deep sense of satisfaction that sounded  _ wrong _ and unlike anything Killian had ever heard before. “ _ There _ it is.”

And when he spoke her name, she made no move to further acknowledge his presence--to acknowledge  _ anyone _ , not even her son. Killian cleared his throat and tried again: “Emma. What are you doing?”

“What I have to.” The voice was tight, coiled; her eyes were riveted to the hole in the wall and it sent icy shivers of fear down his spine.

“You’re hurting him,” he said, and nothing else.

“He has what I need, and I am doing what I need to do to fix this.” Her eyes, which had been glued to the wall, turned to Killian; they were burning as she maintained her pressure on Merlin. “This is how I can stop the Darkness.”

“By succumbing to it?” Killian took one small step forward and Emma’s eyes went immediately to the dagger. With a muttered curse he tucked it into the back of his waistband, but Emma’s gaze remained fixed. 

He took another step forward. “Emma, love, please--will you look at me?” His words were careful and considered and pleading; mindful that he still held the dagger, he did not want to coerce her in any way.

Her head moved, shifting slightly.

“We can find another way.” Desperation bled through his voice now, but Killian did not care. He was almost close enough to touch her. “We always do, you know that. We  _ found _ you, didn’t we?”

Silence.

She stared into the distance, this person who was and yet was  _ not _ his Emma, and the panting of the man beneath her boot was the only sound that filled the room as she slowly loosened her grip on his wrist. She was  _ elsewhere _ , present and absent, swaying very slightly and not seeing a thing.

One more step forward and she snapped back into the present,  _ present _ , as she smiled a tight smile and looked him square in the eye for the first time.

“No,” she said. “Not this time.”

It hit him like a perfect punch to the solar plexus, staggeringly painful and completely unexpected and he  _ could not move _ as Emma smiled--a wider smile this time--and calmly removed her boot from Merlin’s neck. Calmly walked across the room. Calmly put her hand through the broken wall--

And wrapped her fingers around the hilt of--

Howling, Merlin sprang up; a broken, panting sound of anguish as he ran and stumbled toward Emma--tried to yank back her arm--yelling “ _ No, Emma, NO!”  _ as she started to pull   
And pull   
_ And pull _   
And the sword in the wall came free with a ripping, tearing, gut-wrenching noise and it was as though-- _ dear gods _ it felt like Killian was watching his own heart get torn from his body all over again when Emma turned, the sword free as she followed its momentum, Merlin still gripping her shoulder as her hand swing in an arc--

The sword connected with flesh--

\--Merlin’s flesh--

And sliced clean through his neck.

_ Silence. _

Utter and complete silence except for the soft gurgling, the fountain of gushing blood. Five pairs of eyes--Captain Hook, the Evil Queen, Snow White, The Heart of the Truest Believer, and the Savior-- _ The Dark One-- _ riveted to the Sorcerer as he collapsed to the floor.

Killlian finally-- _ finally _ \--unfroze and took a step to his left as he instinctively pulled Henry against him to spare him the sight.

Too late.

**\--**

  
  


And suddenly there was sound.

Roaring, ear-splitting, deafening; a cacophony of noise and Merlin choked his last breath,  _ disappeared _ , he fucking disappeared into a screaming vortex of furious energy that howled like a tornado. The walls shook and the floorboards rattled and Emma screamed as the hand holding the sword,  _ her hand _ , got pulled up as if by magnets and dragged her toward the vortex, and she could  _ feel it _ and how it felt like the magic was being sucked out of her--

(Her hand.  _ Her _ sword.)

Henry tore himself away from Killian and screamed: “It’s a portal!”

And she could do nothing but walk toward it, pulled by invisible strings.

(The light, her light, the magic, the sword,  _ her sword _ .)   
(It wasn’t meant to happen like this.)

(Her hand on the hilt of the sword, stuck in its concrete base and Merlin’s hand on her shoulder, pulling as she stumbled backward, propelled by the sword and its sudden untethering.   
Off-balance.   
She was falling, fighting the laws of physics, of action and reaction--   
Equal and opposite.)

_ Leave the sword alone. _

It was an accident.   
_ (It was an accident.) _

Killian, shaking and doubled over and finally pulling the dagger from his waistband--

(Her dagger.)

(But the dagger answers to the Darkness, and has no other master.)

\--as it arced toward the portal, a compass needle finding true north. Regina reached for Henry with one hand and Mary Margaret with the other   
And stepped   
Vanished   
Into the twister of light

Emma can taste it: Movie theater chocolate in the dark and a bright red ridiculous hat.

Power. Darkness.

(It was an accident,  _ you couldn’t have stopped it,  _ it all went so fast, you couldn’t have _ \--) _ _  
_ (Could you?)

There is sunlight. The light is different; red, diffuse, cold, the color of the clock tower as it crashed to the ground in the blood-red world.

_ You can make the choice, Emma. _ _  
_ _ Eternity is a very long time. _   
(She saw a tombstone.  _ Killian Jones. _ And then--

_ Emma Swan _ )

_ You can follow the Darkness, or you can follow the Light. _

He’s in bed with her, all blue eyes and scruff and warm fingers whispering across her skin.

“I thought I lost you.” His voice is scratchy.

(She was cold, but she could not see her breath.)

He leans over, kisses her. His lips are soft, and she melts into it.

“Don’t scare me like that again. Please, love. Please don’t.”

(She could have stopped it.)   
(She  _ should have  _ stopped it.)

_ Find another way _ .

“But what if we can’t, this time? What do we do then?”   
She shakes her head and looks up at him.

“Emma?”

She sees his mouth move, but it’s not his voice. His brow furrows, and he says her name again, “Emma?”, but it’s not his voice, and it’s not a question.

And then--

There was silence.

Silence, and a sense of relief.

No pain. No fear. No doubt.

Numbness.

_ Nothing. _

-/-

_ Pain _ . It shoots up her spine and steals her breath, excruciating as Excalibur reverberates from the sheer force of the blow and Emma feels--

_ (When I jab you with my sword, you’ll feel it) _

_ Emma feels _ and she could almost cry from the relief of it.

But her body does not remember how to cry.

He does not pull his punches as the swords cross, a deafening  **clang** as the curved blade and the straight interlock and  _ she will not go out like this _ .

Not today.

Not ever.

Neither of them will.

She will fix this.

Emma ducks his thrust, avoids hook, hand and sword as they seem to defy the laws of physics

_ Action and reaction _

_ Equal and opposite _

And with a roar she spins and feints left and he follows her, parries her feint, and she twists up and to the right and her blade connects with his arm and splits his jacket like tissue paper.

His jacket and the shirt and the skin beneath it and she has drawn first blood and she feels that, too, a hum in her veins and a buzzing in her mind as she watches it trickle with detached fascination.

He can bleed.

She can feel.

It doesn’t have to end like this.

She can fix it.

(She can fix  _ him _ .)

-/-

There was wet grass under her cheek and the echo of Killian’s voice--

(Home, and warmth, and a family. A happy ending) .

\--in her ear and she felt like she should want to cry.

Like it would be normal to want to cry.

But she couldn’t.

She didn’t.

_ Emma. _ There was only one person, one person in the entire world who said her name like that. Just one.

_ Open your eyes. _

_ See. _

It was an inky black night and she lay on the grass but when Emma looked up she saw a blanket of stars and it was, somehow, not unexpected. She pulled herself upright, rustling her long black sleeves, and she saw them--

Tiny sparkles; an echo of the blanket above her head.

Tiny sparkles  _ on her skin _ .

She was all in black, under a black cloak and there are tiny fucking sparkles on her skin, skin that felt--thicker.

She blinked.

It was gone. The sparkles--the clothes--all of it. Her leather jacket still had Merlin’s blood on it and her boots were mottled with plaster dust. She was on the top of a hill, inside a stone circle.

“There you are.” The voice was soft and lilting and decidedly female. It seemed to come from everywhere at once and inside Emma’s head. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

There was a laugh that should have curdled Emma’s blood and it didn’t.

It couldn’t.

The laughter got louder.

“I’ve been waiting  _ so long _ for you, Savior. You, and that blade you are holding.”

_ Emma _ . 

The female voice inside her head vanished without a trace and she heard his voice again: Soft and lovely and  _ loving _ . Like she was the means to his end and the purpose to his journey and the answer to all of his questions and hopes and unspoken wishes murmured in the dark.

_ Emma _ . There was only his voice.

His voice and the way he said her name.

_ Open your eyes, love. _

_ Come back to me. _

  
  



	4. Touch Me I'm Going to Scream (Part 1)

She felt so small in his arms.

The portal had spit them out atop a hill inside a ring of nondescript boulders, a waxing moon in the night sky above them and no other source of light but for the stars. This world was silent; he could hear the others moving and his own breathing but there was nothing else.

It was the darkness of a complete absence of light bulbs, of artificial light and a world without humming power lines. 

How quickly he had grown accustomed to the ambient noise of modern life, but its absence told him one thing for certain: They were back. 

In the Enchanted Forest.

They were back in a land of magic and danger and Emma was unconscious in his arms with Merlin’s blood on her jacket and her son not five feet away.

“Emma,” he whispered, pulling her tighter against him and kissing the top of her forehead, relishing even now the sense of connection. “Emma, please don’t scare me like this. Come back to me, love. Open your eyes.”

And though she was--here, in this realm of magic--invincible, as he held her she felt nothing so much as breakable. When she opened her eyes Killian breathed a long, long sigh of relief.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, the words scratched and nearly broken.

Her expression was blank, shell-shocked, and Killian cupped her cheek.

“Emma, love, it’s me.”

She trembled as she leaned into his touch and shrank away from it simultaneously; she looked at him with unseeing eyes and reached her hand out, stretching it until it was in front of her face.

“It’s Killian, love, can you hear me?” Killian pulled her hand into his--pulled it against his chest, his  _ heart _ \--and Emma gave a great, heaving  _ shudder _ .

And blinked.

Her eyes glistened but there were no tears as she whispered, “What have I done?”

“It appears as though you willfully ended a life, Miss Swan.” Regina’s tone was a special blend of disinterested and judgmental. Emma stiffened in his arms at those words as Killian gave serious consideration to a gag for Her Majesty.

“Regina!” Snow rounded on her, fury in her eyes so hot Killian could see it in the dark. “Henry is  _ right there _ !”

“I know,” Henry said. “I saw.”

Emma was shaking now--still small, somehow, strangely slight and insubstantial--and Killian glared daggers at Regina. “So this is how we are going to treat each other,  _ Your Majest _ ? Would now be an appropriate reminder of all of the lives that lie heavy upon  _ your _ soul? Can you even count them all? Can I?”

Killian paused. Swallowed. 

“What purpose,” he continued, lowering his voice, “could your statement have, Regina? Other than to make Emma suffer and to traumatize her son?”

“ _ Our _ son,” Regina said archly, and turned. “And I am simply reminding you,  _ Captain _ , that Emma is no longer the Savior.”

“Killian?” Emma looked up and for a moment the world around them disappeared. “Killian--what--?”

“Emma.” He had the irrational urge to keep using her name. To remind her who she was. “It was an accident. You couldn’t have stopped it, it was all so fast--”

Something came over Emma as he said the words, almost as though she were mouthing them to herself, and--

“Was it?” Regina’s voice was, again, clear and cutting.

_ They did not have time for this _ .

Killian inhaled, tightening his grip on Emma, opened his mouth--

“We all have blood on our hands,” Snow said, her tone clear, her head held high. “You most of all, Regina, and you do not get to judge others for their sins.”

“I’m not judging her. I’m merely saying--”

“Stop it.” Henry’s voice. Soft. Pleading. Concerned. “Please.” He turned toward Regina. “You should know better than all of us, Mom. You changed. You fought it.”

“We make our own destiny,” Killian agreed. He smiled at Henry, a small but genuine smile of appreciation and encouragement. “The darkness has tempted  _ each _ of us, Regina, and you and I dove into it headlong at the first opportunity; we spent  _ lifetimes _ in it. Didn’t we?” His tone matched hers by the time he was finished speaking and he returned all of his focus to the woman in his arms.

_ Emma _ .

Emma, who was watching him. Watching all of them, one hand wrapped around his hook and the other reached across his back, resting at his hip.

Snow crouched down, putting herself at eye level and leaving Henry to deal with Regina.

“Killian, I meant what I said. None of us is pure or perfect. Not even me.”

“As you say, milady--”

“No.” Her gaze was fixed. “Listen to me, Killian, I’ve done what Emma just did, only I made an outright choice. We have all blackened pieces of our hearts, but we make our own destiny. If anyone can beat the odds--it’s Emma. It’s  _ you _ , Killian. Together. I believe it.”

There was wetness on his cheeks as Killian pulled himself back, angling his head until he was sure that Emma could see him. “You are the Savior, Swan. You have survived so many times and grown the stronger person because of it. I know you can do this.”

“Do you really think so?” Emma’s voice shook. He wanted to believe that was hope tinting the edges of her words.

He wanted to believe.

Her hand moved across his back, brushing against the hilt of the dagger he still kept in his belt. Her eyes flashed and Killian put every shred of conviction he could summon into his next words.

“Together, Swan, we can do anything. I am living proof.”

He lifted his left wrist and brought her hand, still wrapped around his hook, to his lips. He kissed it, softly--once, twice--

“Have hope, love.”

Their eyes met and hers were clear for the first time since she’d regained consciousness. Clear, and focused, and glistening and she whispered his name and pulled him against her, burying her head in his shoulder and her fingers left the hilt of the dagger and grasped at the hair on the back of his neck as she ran them through it. She breathed deeply--

“Mom?”

\--and stilled. “Henry?”

“Mom!” Henry threw himself at the ground knees-first and pulled Emma into an embrace that brought Killian along through sheer gravity.

“I’m okay, kid, I’m okay,” she repeated, but Killian heard what no one else seemed to: the hitch when she said it. As though the word tasted strange, as though maybe she didn’t remember what “okay” meant any more. 

Killian stood up, gently removing himself from Emma and Henry. Henry helped Emma to her feet and as she stood between them, one arm wrapped around Henry’s shoulders and the other threaded through his arm, she smiled and Killian felt his heart skip a beat.

It was not a happy smile and Killian couldn’t help but notice that her hand was, once again, very near the dagger in his belt. Her smile wasn’t happy, no; rather it was one of contentment, of satisfaction. As though she had, finally, exactly what she had been looking for.

Killian. Henry. The dagger.

With a careless wave of her hand there was a sword belt on her waist and she slid the broken sword into its sheath and Killian bit off an exclamation.

“Now,” she said. “Where exactly are we?”

\--

They made their way slowly down the hillside; the moon had set and the light of the rising sun was at their backs, and Mary Margaret’s hands were twitching.

“What I wouldn’t give for a--”

Regina twisted her right and hand and Mary Margaret was holding a bow and quiver. Henry laughed out loud at her nonplussed expression as she stopped dead in her tracks to glare at Regina.

The glare faded to respect and a smile and Emma should have been happy to see her mother’s smile.

To hear her son laugh.

His laughter should  _ matter _ , but it was just--sound.

_ It was just sound _ .

“Perhaps--” Killian said.

“Yes, yes,” Regina said. “We should all be armed.” Her hand was raised again, and then she looked at Henry. “Not you.”

Henry opened his mouth in protest, but Regina quirked an eyebrow and he fell silent, grumbling below his breath. It should have been funny, his teenage whining about “but  _ grandpa  _ lets me” and “Killian taught me, I’m not a kid.”

It wasn’t.

It wasn’t funny when the Queen turned to Emma and said, “Not you, either. And you’ll want to cut back on the magic while you’re at it, too. It’s no longer yours.”

Something in her rose up at the words--at Regina of all people telling  _ her _ , commanding  _ her _ \--and then Emma felt that truth of that statement, felt it in the way the magic twitched and buckled like a living thing inside of her, as if she could see it pulsing through her arteries and veins and shimmering underneath her skin.

_ Tiny sparkles _ .

She took a deep breath and touched the sword at her side, felt its hum of power answer her, and remained silent.

Emma was armed. And she was  _ done _ being underestimated by Regina-fucking-Mills.

Regina watched her, her eyes narrowed, and  _ that  _ did make Emma want to laugh, as she could feel the placid expression she pasted onto her face; the Evil Queen watching The Savior for signs of trouble--

_ The Dark One _ .

She was the  _ Dark One _ and that made the power tremble inside of her, too, behind the pasted-on placid expression, but Regina quirked her eyebrow a second time, and flicked her wrist.

“We need to do something about this, too,” she said, gesturing at Killian’s jeans and Henry’s peacoat and her own sensible sheath dress and avoiding the blood-spattered boots that Emma wore.

“A wardrobe change,” Killian grumbled. “Of course, how could I forget?”

When the purple smoke cleared, the first thing Emma saw was Killian. Killian in his greatcoat and his leather trousers, swordbelt hanging from his waist, his hair disheveled from the smoke and the kohl under his eyes smudged from the fracas. Killian looking once more like the pirate he had been in Neverland and that did, finally, make her heart beat faster.

_ Damn _ .

She hadn’t missed the coat, not when its absence finally put on display an ass that could stop traffic all over Storybrooke, but Emma felt her hands curl at the memory of crumpling its lapels in her grasp as she pulled him toward her for a searing-hot kiss that had lit everything inside of her on fire in the Neverland jungle.

Killian looked at her, his eyes widening at the sight of her once more in a corset, its laces and stays uncomfortably tight, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip as he  _ winked _ , his meaning absolutely clear and Emma smiled because that-- _ that _ \--she felt.

And it felt good.

_ Damn. _

Emma pulled at the front laces of her bodice, shifting her waist under the constriction of the too-tight stays, but Regina reached out and stopped her..

“Don’t,” she said, eyes boring into Emma’s. “It’s supposed to be restrictive. It’ll keep you preoccupied, distract you from--” she huffed “--inconvenient thought trajectories.”

“Are you saying a piece of clothing is my ally in a battle against the Darkness?” Emma couldn’t help but laugh out loud, earning another wink from Killian. It felt almost normal.

“I’m saying it can’t possibly hurt to give your mind something to do other than listen to currents of power,” Regina replied archly. “And your discomfort is a price you should be willing to pay.”

Emma gave her a full-body eye roll while Henry and Snow snickered, but then she felt Killian’s arm around her waist and his breath tickling against her ear, scattering all thoughts of Darkness and discomfort as he whispered “It’s a cross I am willing to bear, love.”

She leaned into him and the smile that stretched across her face, she could feel it, and it zinged through her body just like the magic had.

\--

The path opened onto a wider road, well-maintained for horses and wagons and heavier traffic, and Mary Margaret said, “We must be near the main city of a kingdom.”   
“Aye,” Killian agreed, just as Regina said, “Obviously.” Emma was forcibly reminded of her prior excursions to the Enchanted Forest, at how Mary Margaret had treated her, like a  _ lost child _ , as if it hadn’t been her fault in the first place that Emma had been lost--

“What do you think, milady?” Killian said, hand shading his eyes as he looked for the sun. “South? The ocean borders Misthaven in that direction and a port town will give us options for travel and provisioning.”

But when Mary Margaret opened her mouth to answer, Emma heard hooves. Lots of hooves--many, many hooves--and voices.

Emma looked at Killian, who nodded and motioned them off to the side--not quite hidden, but out of plain sight as Mary Margaret climbed the first tree beside her and settled herself on a branch with her bow at the ready. Emma and Regina both reached for Henry, Regina pushing Henry to stand behind her as she raised her right hand, her wrist twisted and her palm upward.

Nobody spoke, but Emma could feel the sword, she could  _ hear _ it as the magic hummed along her nerve endings, power and strength pulsating through her veins and inside her head as it resolved into a sound like waves crashing onto the shore the moment the riders came into view. It was all she could do to keep her concentration on them.

The too-tight corset was long forgotten and Emma realized she was gripping the handle of the sword so hard that her hand hurt.

And that Killian had his hand around her wrist.

His knuckles were white.

There were seven or eight of them, mounted on horses groomed to shiny perfection with shimmering coats and gleaming harnesses. The riders wore bright colors and rich leather, their shields glinting in the sunlight as they rode, unerringly, toward Snow White’s bow and the Evil Queen’s fireball and the Dark One’s sword, a sword that was now vibrating in earnest.

The riders stopped at a deferential distance and Killian’s hand shifted so that his thumb brushed across her wrist, gently coaxing her until she moved her hand from the sword hilt and felt his fingers thread through hers and Emma sighed. There was never going to be a realm or a circumstance dark or dire enough where Killian folding his fingers through hers wasn’t going to calm her down and fill her with warmth.

And so she relaxed and looked up.

The front rider dismounted in a swift, smooth motion, his silver-buckled cuirass blindingly shiny, his pale eyes dancing and his smile unguarded.

Emma instantly went on full alert.

She could not pinpoint what exactly was tripping off every one of her senses, but alarm was what she felt, and instinct was all she had. This man was dangerous, of that she was certain. Killian next to her smiled and bowed and whispered “Steady, Emma,” as he squeezed her fingers to the point of pain. She inclined her head without taking her eyes off of the man and tried her hardest to give him a smile.

“Welcome,” the man said. “Welcome, Savior. We’ve been waiting for you for a long time.”

Inside Emma’s head, a woman’s voice  _ cackled _ .

\--

Killian felt the change in Emma’s breathing as the man spoke, the man who looked like a sheep but had the eyes of a wolf, and his deference made Killian immediately suspicious. True, they were back in a land where chivalry and ritual were present and ubiquitous, but Killian knew, better than most, how that was just a facade that could  _ and would _ be used to justify whatever was deemed necessary in the moment. The man before him, with his economy of movement, his loose stance and easy authority, was clearly the type of man who wielded any and all weapons based solely on his own whims and wishes.

He was not to be underestimated, no matter the rules of engagement; fortunately, Killian had abandoned those at the bottom of the sea with his brother’s corpse and his uniform coat.

“I am King Arthur,” the man said, pride and arrogance underlining the simplicity of his introduction. He pointed to the men behind him. “These are some of my Knights.”

“Knights?” Henry pushed himself against Regina’s restraining arm. “Like the Round Table?” he said.

“Just like,” Arthur said.

“King Arthur of Camelot?” Regina’s voice held neither deference nor interest. She sounded barely curious and Killian bit down on a smile. She sounded not in the least surprised that a king had been waiting for them.

“You’ve been waiting for us?” Snow sounded more concerned; her normally-open face was shut down. If Killian didn’t know better, he would think she sounded--suspicious.

Good.

Arthur smiled, open and persuasive and charming. “No, milady,” he said. “Though we are eager to welcome all of you into Camelot, it is the Savior we have been waiting for these many years.”

His attention and his smile fell upon Emma. Killian felt the tug as she tried to pull her hand out of his and held on all the tighter, ignoring her hard look and watching her as she turned back to Arthur.

The King bowed once more.

“You  _ are _ the Savior, are you not? Just as Merlin prophesied.”

Emma flinched and Killian fought to control his breathing and his demeanor as he diverted his energy toward the woman next to him.

“You are,” Arthur said, “carrying Excalibur, after all.”

And Emma went rigid, her eyes rolling in her head as she seemed to sway.

\--

Excalibur.

Excalibur.

_ Excalibur _ .

It was a chorus of voices inside Emma’s head and it amplified, crescendoed, ringing on itself exponentially until she had to close her eyes. She yanked her hand from Killian’s grip; pressed the heels of her hands against her temples to combat the voices screaming and howling and roaring the name.

_ Excalibur _ .

They echoed and pounded and then suddenly scattered into nothingness until only a small whisper remained:  _ You should have left the sword alone. _

\--

Killian would have given anything for five minutes alone with Emma, away from sorcerers and kings and the pressure of observed action; just five minutes for the two of them, alone.

Just five minutes to let her breathe.

Instead Arthur nodded at the men behind him, and Killian felt a sudden suspicion that Emma’s reaction to his words had--satisfied him, somehow.

This man wanted Emma, and he knew more than he should.

“It was foretold in Merlin’s prophecy that the Savior would come, bearing Excalibur, and help to unite my realm.” Arthur shook his head in a gesture meant to convey agitation, but there was no turmoil behind it that Killian could sense.

“Strife divides my land,” Arthur continued his recitation. For it  _ was _ a recitation, well-rehearsed and as easily donned, or discarded, as the rules and rituals and performance of chivalry. It was useful to Arthur only inasmuch as it got him what he wished for. “And you are meant to help me heal its wounds. But first, let me invite you to my home. You must be weary, and we will be honored to host you as our guests.”

From above their heads Snow dropped to the ground, bow slung casually across her shoulders, and smiled. It was a charming smile, as false and easily practiced as Arthur’s speech.

“Then we accept your invitation,” she said, turning back to glare at everyone until even Regina nodded. Snow took Henry’s hand and moved decisively to the middle of the road, right into the group of horses.

Next to Killian, Emma huffed.

“Lead the way, Sire,” she said. “Take us to Camelot.”

The men behind Arthur dismounted and turned around, ready to march. It was a small, but significant, show of force, Killian thought, a flex of muscle and authority for a group of knights who did not know that their party now included a sharpshooting bandit, a pirate, a former Evil Queen--and a Dark One.

Killian shuddered.

_ No _ , he thought. Not a Dark One.

Just Emma.

\--

Regina fell in line with Emma as they walked along the path. Ahead of them, Mary Margaret was taking stock of the horses and chatting easily with several of the knights--and Arthur himself--while Killian and Henry hung back, quietly, together. Regina and Emma brought up the rear and the Queen strode in silence for several miles, it felt like, until the tension started to crackle between them.

“Spit it out,” Emma finally said, and Regina smiled.

It was not a comforting smile.

“You can fool them, Emma, all of them, even your mother, even the pirate, but you can’t fool me.” Regina stopped walking, forcing Emma to do the same. “That look in your eyes, I’ve seen it before--in the  _ mirror _ .”

Regina didn’t even let Emma open her mouth to reply before continuing. “And that new power you have? You  _ like _ it. Omnipotence? Power over the laws of nature itself? Unlimited resources to use however you please, whenever you please? You don’t just like it. You  _ want _ it.”

Inside Emma a feeling started to spread; cold and yet immensely satisfying, and absolute in its reassurance. She thought of Regina’s power compared to hers, its paltry drop of water compared to her ocean, and--

_ (This is the absence of fear.) _

_ (This is yours for the taking.) _

_ (Open your hand.) _ _  
_ _ (Take it.) _

And Emma’s lip started to curl and Regina’s eyes narrowed knowingly and she snapped, “Save it, Miss Swan. Fool them, fool yourself. But you leave Henry out of it. I will protect Henry from pain and suffering  _ with my life _ , and I will protect him against  _ anything _ .”

Regina did not say, “Even you,” but Emma heard it all the same, and she bristled.  _ Miss Swan _ . She would  _ never _ hurt Henry--and what right did Regina-fucking-Mills have to threaten her, to  _ threaten _ her, the goddamn Evil Queen who had gone to such extreme lengths to  _ keep _ him, to stop him from believing, to--of the two of them,  _ Emma _ had never put  _ their son _ under a sleeping curse with a poisoned apple, for fuck’s sake.

“It won’t come to that,” Emma said coldly.

“See that it doesn’t, Miss Swan.”

And Regina turned back to join the others, leaving Emma alone.

\--

In the end it was the library that persuaded Killian; the famed library of Camelot, renowned across the realms for the tomes and knowledge contained therein. 

The library, and nothing else. There was nothing persuasive about Arthur and the longer he spent in the man’s company, the less Killian trusted him--but that was nothing to the reaction of Snow White. Part of Killian was surprised that he could even discern it, the cool distrust under the polished surface of her every move, and as much as it reinforced Killian’s instinct to never trust royalty he was relieved at least that Snow held herself together for their common goal: Save Emma. 

Whatever it took.

As for Emma herself--

The look in her eyes grew more hardened and closed off the longer they walked, all of her focus driven inward. Killian was not even sure if she could still feel the weight of his hand around hers. She kept drifting toward his side and though he wanted to believe that it was a gesture of seeking comfort he could not forget the weight of the dagger still tucked in at the small of his back.

He knew that she had not forgotten it, either. 

Killian knew that she wanted it and there was a part of him that hated to keep it from her, as though he were denying her a piece of herself, but he felt unready to return it to the woman that he loved. 

To the creature she could become.

The topless towers of Camelot were invisible to him and the retinue of heralds awaiting them at the portcullis wasted their efforts, because Killian heard not a single word. He shouldered the half-forgotten weight of his greatcoat and wished he could bring back the flash of  _ Emma _ that had surfaced for seeing it, the speculation in her eye before she had grabbed him in Neverland or the warmth that had lit her up on a cool night outside of Granny’s. For an instant he wished he had his hand free, to finger the spot on his cuff where she had ripped it, missing the mended tear that was absent in the new coat.

Instead he mentally ticked off everything he had learned in his centuries-long quest to vanquish Rumplestiltskin.

It wasn’t enough.

He  _ knew _ it wasn’t enough.

So if King Arthur was prepared to offer unfettered access to all of the knowledge of the library of Camelot, then Killian Jones was going to take it and use it to save the woman he loved from the creature she could become.

And yet.

Killian stood in front of the heavy wooden double doors and stared at them, a roiling mixture of anticipation and apprehension leaving him paralyzed. It was Henry who pushed the doors open and led the way into the cavernous space, an enormous perfect circle easily four or five storeys high. It was at least one hundred feet in diameter and lined with honey-colored wooden shelves that reached nearly the full height of the room. Ladders ran on mounted tracks and everything was arranged around an immense skylight that had to be magical--no such thing could exist in a castle otherwise.

And yet.

Killian had not survived mermaids, lost boys, demon children, Evil Queens and Rumplestiltskin without keeping a weather eye on conditions at all times and Killian knew, in his gut, that something was not right here; he sighed, his hand rubbing against the back of his neck. He looked at Henry, who was looking up at him.

“We’ll find something, lad, worry not,” he said, trying to be encouraging.

“I know,” Henry said, though he sounded--for the first time--as though he wasn’t sure. Then, “Do you think Arthur was telling the truth? About waiting for my mom?”

Arthur had said very little beyond naming the sword at Emma’s side and had been both unsurprised and strangely jubilant at the news of Merlin’s death. He had also, immediately upon their arrival within the castle walls, separated them. It had been neatly done and left no room for refusal, not as guests of the king under his very roof. The women had been whisked away to the former Queen’s apartments, and the look on Snow’s face at learning there was no longer a queen in residence spoke volumes.

Killian stopped himself reaching for the dagger, for the letters engraved there, by sheer force of will. It made him uneasy to be apart from her so soon  _ and yet _ not nearly so uneasy as it made him to be around her, feeling as though he was already watching her fade away as she slipped between focus and restlessness and joy and disinterest like a weathervane in an oncoming storm.

“I think he was,” Killian said.

“Yeah.” Henry’s voice was a whisper. “What does he want with her?”

Killian tried to put a hand on his shoulder, but for the first time, Henry flinched at his touch.

“Lad.” Killian tried to keep the worry out of his voice. “You are allowed to feel despair. You are allowed to be angry, or sad, or frustrated, or afraid.” 

Henry looked up.

“I know it’s daunting,” Killian said. “I know it is. But we will find a way to bring back your mother, and we will not let King Arthur stop us. We will  _ bring her back _ , whatever it takes.”

“What if we don’t?”

“We will.” And suddenly Killian was certain of it. Belle had told him that everything Emma is now was always a part of her--which  _ had _ to mean that everything she used to be was still there.

He didn’t just  _ want _ to believe it. He  _ believed _ it.

Henry smiled. Small and tentative, but there. “Me too,” he said, before he straightened and whipped his head around so suddenly that Killian worried the boy would do himself an injury. 

“This is going to sound crazy,” Henry said. “But I think I know where we need to look.”

\--

Regina sucked in air through her teeth as she ran her hand down a brocade tapestry against the wall of her room. It sounded like a whistle and the sound grated against Emma’s nerves.

“Now what have we here?” she said, a note of triumph in her voice. “Mary Margaret, come look at this.”

As though Emma wasn’t even there. With an impatient--instinctual--flick of her wrist Emma pulled the tapestry off the wall. It came down with a  _ whoosh _ and landed in an oddly orderly heap of folds at Regina’s feet

Emma ignored the dirty look she received in response, leaving Regina no choice but to turn her attention back to the wall.

“Oooh,” she breathed. “He thinks he’s a clever boy, doesn’t he?”

“Who thinks he’s clever?” Mary Margaret asked, a worried frown teasing at the wrinkle in her forehead as her expression darted between her daughter and her step-mother. “And--what in the name of the Evil Queen is  _ that _ ?”

Okay. That was funny, and Emma laughed, joylessly, as Regina stilled like a statue and Mary Margaret blushed a deep red.

“What in  _ whose _ name, did you say?” The words were inviting the way an open grave was inviting and Mary Margaret bit her lip in uncomfortable response.

“Sorry,” Mary Margaret mumbled. “Old habits, I guess, and we are back in the Enchanted Forest.”

“You were--I was--” Regina shook her head. “I was an expression?  _ An expression _ ?”

“Well, yeah. You know--kind of like how people in Storybrooke say ‘what the hel--’”

“It suits you,” Emma snarked, and was treated to a royal eyebrow raise of cool displeasure. She shrugged. “Glad you know you were held in such high regard in ye olden days, right?”

“I get it, bandit.” Regina’s voice was icy, but Mary Margaret laughed at whatever she could see in her expression. They were having fun.

The Evil Queen was  _ joking _ with Snow White. In the Enchanted Forest.

Where Emma was once again forcibly reminded of how much she didn’t belong. Her fingers twitched and she stared at the wall, at the sword that was on the other side of it in the room that had been given to her and to Killian, and her mind eased at the reminder that she had what she needed--Killian, Henry--and what she needed to protect them--the magic, the sword, the dagger. She didn’t  _ need _ Mary Margaret. She never had.

Just like Mary Margaret had never needed her, not since she was born.

Emma still needed to get the dagger from Killian, though.  _ Killian _ . She could trust him. He wouldn’t--

“Then tell me, Your Highness, who’s clever, and what on earth is that?”

It was obviously a magic mirror, but Emma said nothing, not even stopping to question how or why she knew that--considering only how she might use it.

“That, Snow, is a magic mirror,” Regina said, pointing toward the wall. She nudged the fabric at her feet. “And this is no ordinary tapestry. Watch.”

She picked up the seemingly useless bit of cord and cracked it, forcing the tapestry to lift itself up, a reversal of Emma’s own spell that left the cloth hanging once again on the wall, concealing the mirror.

“Arthur,” Regina said. “He thinks he can keep an eye on us with this.”

“Regina,” Mary Margaret said, and there was no trace of amusement in her voice. “You know he can’t be trusted.”

Regina’s smile was a dark kind of amused. “You think I became the  _ Evil Queen _ because I suffered from an overabundance of trust?”

“Trust issues, more like,” Emma said.

“I’d look in the mirror yourself on that one, Miss Swan,” Regina said, and that--well, it didn’t  _ sting _ so much as it ricocheted around the empty places inside of her. 

“She has cause,” Mary Margaret said softly, and Emma felt that, too, an olive branch offered twenty-eight years too late. All the same. Emma had to wonder what Arthur had done that was so unforgivable that Mary Margaret was willing to trust  _ Regina _ but could not forgive him.

Regina’s expression did something that Emma would describe as softening if the Evil Queen was ever soft with anyone. “Perhaps she does,” Regina admitted. “And I haven’t forgotten what you did for me, Emma.”

She had stepped into a whirlwind and screamed into the darkness.

And the Darkness had answered.

“All evidence to the contrary,” Emma retorted.

“I’m sorry,” Regina conceded. “But we are here to help.”

The power inside of Emma crackled with resentment.

Emma didn’t  _ need _ help.

She didn’t  _ need _ fixing.

She didn’t need another way, or to make a choice.

She had everything she needed.

Regina turned back to Mary Margaret. “As for you, bandit--how would you like to check in on your charming husband?”

\--

They found the journals in an ornately carved wooden box with no lock and a lid with no hinges; a box which contained a stack of worn and leather-bound handwritten books. Henry called out in momentary triumph before his face fell.

Emma cocked her head, her eyes narrowing as she watched them through the mirror, watched her kid page through one of the volumes before handing it to Killian.

“Can you read these?” Henry asked.

Killian ran his hand through his hair and Emma closed her eyes, briefly, reaching for the memory of the way it felt under her fingertips. 

“Aye,” he said. “It looks to be an old dialect of the Misthaven aristocracy. Bit arcane, but I should be able to puzzle through it.”

“What is it?” Henry asked.

Killian flipped to the first page of the book and frowned in concentration. “Merlin’s journals, I’d wager.”

“Really?” Henry’s eyes lit up, all boyish enthusiasm, and Emma tried to summon a smile.

She failed.

“Really,” Killian said, and  _ he _ managed a smile, a smile full of warmth and affection for her kid that sent a thrill of heat through her. “Now then, hand me the rest of that pile, will you? And then perhaps you’d like to go check on your mother?”

“I think--” Henry paused and Emma leaned forward. “I think I should stay here with you. We’re a team, Killian.”

“So are you and your mother, lad. She loves you more than she loves anything.”

“No.” Henry shook his head. “No, Killian, I meant--the three of us. We’re a team. I’m going to help you, so that we can all be--”

“Together?” The smile Killian gave Henry was smaller and sadder, but Henry responded in an instant, as though it were some kind of private joke.

Henry pushed the stack of books across the table and pulled up a chair. “Yeah,” he said. “Together.”

The part of Emma Swan that used to know how to cry flickered briefly to the surface as she felt wetness at the corner of her eyes.

“Right then,” Killian said. “We have work to do.”

She blinked, and it was gone. Henry already had his nose buried in a volume that he couldn’t read and Emma realized that as she sat there, watching Killian and Henry through the magic mirror, she could barely hear the buzzing in her head.

Until--

“What does ‘fire the blade’ mean, Killian? Is it an expression, like, ‘make good on something’? ‘Follow through with it’?” Henry looked up.

_ (Fire the blade.) _

It was a hissing inside Emma’s head, more than a hum now; more insistent, a humming reverberation.

_ (Fire the blade.) _

_ (Be free of your fear _ .)

Killian had no answer to Henry’s question. He sat, silently, not reacting at all--not a twitch, not a breath--and Emma’s own breath caught in sudden and all-too-familiar fear--

“Killian?” Henry’s voice was insistent.

\-- _ Killian _ , Emma thought, wondering what hex or magical fuckery Merlin had booby-trapped his journals with, she couldn’t lose him,  _ she would not lose him _ , not again--

_ (Fire the blade. Be free of your fear.) _

Henry leaned over and ripped the open journal from Killian’s hands and that, finally, provoked a reaction and Emma exhaled almost in unison with Henry as Killian took a deep breath, shook his head, held out his hand.   
“May I have that back, please, Henry?” Killian’s voice was low and gravely but otherwise  _ normal _ and Henry, moving very, very slowly, handed the journal back to him. 

“I called your name like a hundred times,” Henry said.

“Apologies, lad. Did I scare you?”

Henry did a combination eye-roll and glare that only a thirteen-year-old boy could master but it did not hide the fear that still sparked in his eyes. Killian put the book back on the table and rested his hand on Henry’s shoulder.

“It’s a lot to take, lad. I told you before. It’s perfectly reasonable to be scared--”

“I know,” Henry snapped.

“It would be unnatural if you weren’t.”

“Are you scared?”

Killian leaned forward and looked at her son straight in the eye and said, “I’m terrified, my boy. Your mother is everything to me. There is nothing I would not do for her.  _ Nothing _ , do you understand?”

“You found something.” Henry’s voice cracked on the words. “You found it, didn’t you?”

Killian dropped his hand from Henry’s shoulder. “I found something,” he said.

“‘Fire the blade’,” Henry murmured. “Is it a saying, or--”

_ (Be free of your fear. Fire the blade.) _

Emma realized at the same time as Henry did that Killian hadn’t answered his question. “Say it,” he whispered. “Please, Killian, just tell me.”

“Where did you read that, Henry?”

“I didn’t!” Henry exclaimed. “It’s just, I dunno, Author magic or something--who cares, Killian, just, please, tell me what you found.”

“I can’t.” Killian’s voice sounded strangled to Emma’s ears and the knuckles of the hand clutching the spine of the journal turned white. “I can’t tell you. I’m sorry. I found something that might save her, but it comes with a terrible price.”

“Then we have to try.” Henry was adamant. “Whatever the price, we have to pay it. We have to try.”

“I know.” The smile on Killian’s face was remote and unbearably sad. “I know, lad. I will.”

Save her.

Save her from what?

_ (Fire the blade.) _

_ (Be free of your fear.) _

What would that be like, Emma wondered, to never have to fear again? To never fear love, or loss--to know that no matter the battle, no matter the war, she would win, she would  _ win _ , and never have to lose another person she loved, ever again.

_ (Ever again _ .)

_ (Fire the blade _ .) 

The power rose within her, unbidden and instinctive, the power of the most powerful being in all of the realms and not the desperate, ravaged, ruined _ , broken _ thing she had been, afraid to use the magic that was rightfully  _ hers, _ afraid--

_ (Be free of your fear _ .)

It rippled across her skin, the power, and it had a texture--thick and durable but smooth and soft and it glistened in tiny sparkles.

“Henry? Killian?” Mary Margaret’s voice carried through the library, high and melodic, and they jumped as the moment between them broke.

Between all  _ three _ of them. 

Emma shook herself, pulled herself back to the present.

The power receded; the voice in her head quieted.

“Grandma?” Henry called. 

Mary Margaret was regal in the gown she wore, as she smiled at Henry and said, “You need to get changed for dinner. Arthur has invited us as his special guests.”

“I’m not going,” Henry said. He crossed his arms.

“Except for the part where you are,” Mary Margaret said. “Please, Henry--don’t make me send Regina down here.”

He looked at Killian for support and Killian merely shook his head. “This library has been here for hundreds of years, Henry. Do you really think it should all burn to the ground because you were late for dinner?”

That sent him running and left Killian Jones, Captain Hook, facing off against Snow White, his arms crossed every bit as stubbornly as a thirteen-year-old boy’s.

“I’m not going,” he said.

Mary Margaret shook her head, a half-smile quirking at the side of her mouth. “No,” she said. “I don’t suppose you are. You’ve found something, haven’t you?”

Killian pulled at the spot on his belt where the dagger-- _ her dagger _ \--was, and Emma’s fingers twitched.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Mary Margaret’s half-smile faded completely and her voice broke as she whispered. “Are you sure--” she stopped herself. “Of course you’re sure.”

“There is a potential solution,” Killian said. “And I need hardly remind you of all people that magic always comes with a price.”

“And you’re going to pay it.” It wasn’t a question.

Killian shifted his weight. 

“Oh, Killian.” Mary Margaret was nearly in tears. The muscle of his jaw throbbed as Mary Margaret stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, softly. 

The way a mother would.

She kissed him, and, without saying another word, turned and left.

With a wave of her hand Emma dispelled the mirror magic as in a flash of perfect clarity she knew  _ exactly _ what Killian was going to do.

And she felt fear--pure, raw, unadulterated terror, like she never had before.

_ All magic comes with a price _ .

And the price was a life.

_ His _ life.

His  _ life _ .

The power reached around her again, thick and smooth and  _ strong _ , glistening on her skin, and Emma watched it in the mirror, as though she was watching something else--a creature who  _ was _ and  _ was not _ her; a new Emma, a not-Emma covered in literal armor--the skin is thicker, more of a barrier between the creature and the world, and as her eyes trailed up from her hands to her wrists to her forearms and she followed her reflection in the mirror she was shocked and horrified by this  _ other being _ and--

The door opened.

In the depths of her heart, of her soul, she felt him.

She hadn’t in so long.

_ I’m here with you now _ .

The beat of her heart. The ache of it, the wonder, the absolute assurance.

Because what he was saying was,  _ I am always here. _

_ No matter what. _

_ I am here. _ _  
_ _ With you. _ _  
_ _ Always. _

Emma leans forward and feels the warmth of his skin, the beat of his pulse, the certainty of his presence and something inside her bends and bends until it snaps 

snaps her back into herself

into who she is, who she was, who she has always been

back into

_ Emma. _

\--

“Emma.”

It was his voice in her ear--whispered, desperate--his mouth so close, his hot breath, the softness of his lips, and then his fingers grazed against the back of her neck. He fisted his hand in her hair, pulled her close and bit down on her pulse point and--

and she feels, god

_ she feels _ .

There was his hook, cool metal under her gown--along the length of her thigh--and she waved her hand, willing the clothes, the barriers between them to vanish. The look on his face was delighted and startled and she nearly laughed out loud until he looked up and that look--

That look.

Hungry and needy and predatory all at once, he is wrecked,  _ wrecked _ , that look as if she is everything, the means to his end, the purpose to his existence--

_ Everything _

And he pulls her down underneath him, blanketing her body

_ WarmthSaltSkin _

and she feels him--

_ I am here. _ _  
_ _ With you. _ _  
_ _ Always. _

And that promise, the  _ promise _ of two souls coming together-- _ he’d promised her _ ,  _ promised her he wouldn’t die _ \--and the way her skin feels, suddenly it isn’t the same; she is both less sensitive and  _ more _ , his fingers are cotton brushing over feathers, she is cool on the surface, cooler on the outside than on the inside, and she is--

_ afraid _

He doesn’t look away, keeps his eyes on hers, lets her see him--naked in more ways than one--and  _ oh god _ he enters her, he is a question and she is the answer and suddenly she knows, oh god, she knows--

She wraps her legs around him, pulls him closer and closer and harder   
and harder

his eyes still on hers

his lips mouthing her name, and she feels

she feels--

_ She feels _

and she never thought she could want a kiss to go on forever, for him to want her the way he is kissing her now, to value  _ her _ , to love  _ her _ and not the responsibility, the burden, the magic, light or dark; she wants to spend all of the time there is doing nothing except touching him and kissing him and feeling  _ this _ ,  _ feeling  _ this and

She can’t.

_ All magic comes with a price _ , and the price was a  _ life _ , his  _ life _ ,  _ his _ life and he’d promised--

He’d promised her he wouldn’t die.

_ I am here with you now. _

There was a release of endorphins so strong she nearly blacked out.

(There is no rainbow light)

There was a shudder and a gasp and a powerful thrust.

(There is no energy pulsing)

There was Killian shouting her name and his warm, shaking body heavy on top of hers.

(There is no golden warmth; there is only the certainty that no matter how true their love, it cannot conquer her fear.)

( _ Fire the blade) _

There was a surge of power crackling, humming, it ran through the ridges on her skin until she almost felt them light up in response, the tiny sparkles

( _ Fire the blade) _

_ (Be free of your fear) _

##    
  


Emma looked at Killian: fast asleep, his head at a crooked angle and his hair sticking up in all directions, his eyes closed--eyes that knew too much and had seen too much and could read her like a goddamn book--

_ You could not kiss me awake. Because I am not asleep. _

Emma turned on her back and looked up at the ceiling: saw herself as she used to be, her magic feeble and unpredictable and inadequate--fighting foes infinitely more powerful than she, unmatched, outstripped, outdone.

_ There is nothing to fix. _

_ I am not broken. _

##    
  


\--

Killian woke up in an empty bed, the sheets pulled back and tangled and mussed and Emma sitting in a chair by the window, looking out into the night. She was dressed in heavy, quilted black garments that made her skin seem so pale as to--

Sparkle.

Her skin sparkled in the moonlight.

She noticed him notice and when she rasped at him, “What did you find?” it came out harsh and he winced. She didn’t look sorry about it and he flinched at the steel in her eyes.

He got up and walked to her, and he was still naked in the moonlight as he stroked her cheek--cool to the touch, it fascinated the pads of his fingertips--and brushed a strand of hair--paler than before, if he wasn’t imagining things--and yet his Swan was still beautiful, still the most stunning thing he had ever seen in all of the realms. “Don’t you want to get some rest?”

“I don’t sleep any more.”

The words sounded heavy and final. Not ‘I can’t sleep’. ‘I don’t.’

They made his heart ache even more than the strange fire in Emma’s eyes as she looked up at him; distracted and unsettled but focused and not in any way anxious. It was restless energy so intense he could nearly feel it when he touched her and he could see it in the way her hands twitched.

But not for him.

He knew what she wanted.

_ Fire the blade. _

He knew what she wanted, and why, and when she repeated her question he had no choice but to answer her honestly. He could never lie to her, not again and especially not now.

“What did you find?” It was a whisper, sharp as a scalpel. Killian stepped back and reached for a dressing gown.

“There have been Dark Ones since the beginning of time,” Killian finally said as he tied the belt around his waist. “All of them tied to the dagger. All of them bent to its will--generations of power, all tied to one string.”

Because Merlin had made it so; had done it with intent and deliberation so that the darkness might be contained. So that it might be controlled.

But the Darkness answered to no master but itself. The Darkness did not want to be contained.

Emma’s voice was empty and her pupils were slits as she said, “Go on.”

Beautiful as she was, hers was now a beauty that hurt to look upon. He sighed and kept talking.

“The dagger is the only thing which can kill a Dark One.” His voice sounded, even to his own ears, resigned. Broken.

“That isn’t exactly news, Killian,” Emma said. She was impatient. Demanding. “We already knew that.”

“The vanquished Dark Ones are not actually gone,” Killian said. “Not as long as they are tied to the dagger. Their bodies perish; their power does not.”

_ I cannot bring myself to destroy the soul of the woman I once loved _ , Merlin had written in heavy, uneven pen strokes.  _ I cannot give up all hope that one day we might be reunited. In my immortality I cannot accept this defeat. My love has become a weapon, and I have entrusted it to Nimue, who has turned it against me and used my trust for her dark purposes. I may no longer feel these small injuries, but I still feel love for her. _

“Because Merlin created the dagger and bound the Dark One, he too became bound to the magic. And the dagger--is not actually a dagger at all. It is merely the tip of another, larger blade.” Killian had not even finished speaking the words when the sword, in its scabbard, was in Emma’s hands. Her eyes sought out the pile of clothes--his clothes--and lay upon the dagger still buried there.

_ There is a world without magic, and I will use mine to travel there, and there I shall stay. The pressures of the Darkness, the maelstrom of emotions, will be lesser there and I may focus on my task: to wait. _

_ There will be no need to feel this ache and this pain and this emptiness. _ _  
_ _ There will be no need to worry about what I might do with the sword. _

“Emma--”

“Is this our life?” Her voice was urgent, unsteady. “Is this what our life will be? Forever chasing monsters and villains and foes greater than we are, more powerful than we are?” For a moment it was as though she were speaking to herself--to a voice in her head--more than him.

She looked at him, eyes narrowed. Eyes that were pale, with slits for pupils. Her hair in the moonlight and the sparkles across her skin like diamonds strewn across a midnight blue blanket, her voice rough and low and she said, “Killian, what if we could win?”

He stepped forward again, his hand on her shoulder, his hook pushing the hair back. “Emma, love, all magic comes with a price.”

“And the price is a life,” she spat, her words cutting through him, sharp as steel through his skin--through his heart.

“To get rid of the Darkness once and for all--to free you from its burden--the price is a life.”

“ _ Your life _ ,” she said. 

It sounded like a hiss.

“There is something called the Promethean Flame. It can reforge the sword, repair it and reunite it with the dagger. Take on the power of all of the Dark Ones bent to its will. By doing this, someone can take on the power of all of the Dark Ones, tie them to the blade. Take on their power, and sacrifice his life.”

“I never asked you to do that,” she snapped. “I don’t need you to save me. I do  _ not _ need saving, or fixing, don’t you see? I don’t need a hero, Killian.” Her voice turned pleading. “With the power I have now, Killian, we could be safe, all of us, you and me and Henry--we’d never have to worry again, not when I can use the power for good. I’m  _ better _ now.”

“You’re not,” he said softly. “You’re not, Emma, don’t you see? Because there was  _ nothing wrong _ with who you were before. Everything you were, everything you  _ are _ , is enough. I love  _ every part of you _ .” Killian stood, stepped away and bent over the pile of clothes, seeking with his fingers for the familiar feel of an old, worn leather pouch. He looped the string of it around his hook and pulled, finally, the dagger. 

_ One day, _ he had written _ , one day I foresee her: a dark Savior, a child of pure light magic created and protected by True Love. The Darkness will tempt her. It may take her. She will wield Excalibur and with Excalibur the Dark Ones may be bound, their power harnessed and destroyed by destroying the Darkness’ human vessel. _

He turned back to Emma.

His fingers traced the letters of her name. 

EMMA SWAN.

“Open your hand,” he said.

_ She will make the choice: Between Light and Darkness. _

_ It is because of her that I shall be freed. That both of us shall be freed. _

_ Excalibur chooses who it finds worthy. And it chooses its miracles. _

_ Excalibur is destined for the hands of a true hero. _

##    
  


“What are you doing?” Her words were barely a whisper, just a breath taken and given shape, and suddenly she was looking at him with her eyes,  _ her eyes _ , and he had to--

“Hold on to this,” Killian said, as she slipped the pouch from his hook. “This belonged to my brother, and I’ve had it for many years, and I--”

He didn’t know how to say it.

“Remember who you are, Emma. Remember that I love you. Remember that we’ve already had more time together than we ever should have.”

He put the dagger into her hand, laying it crosswise over the pouch.

“This belongs to you,” he said. “No matter what happens, I am here with you now. No matter what happens, I love you. Here, and now, and always.”

Killian remembered the last time he did this, the last time he leaned forward for the kiss of the woman he loved for what he believed would be the last time.

_ “I’m not a tearful goodbye kiss person,” _ she’d said, and now she looked as though she had forgotten how to cry; but Killian was crying, the tears dampening his eyelashes and streaming down his cheeks until he could taste the salt when he brushed his lips against hers--

\--and she vanished in a whirl of purple smoke.

\--

She was on the top of a hill, inside a stone circle.

It had happened before she could even think about it, the overpowering need to  _ get away _ \--from him.

From what he was asking of her.

“There you are.” The voice was soft and lilting and decidedly female. It seemed to come from everywhere at once and inside Emma’s head. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

There was a laugh that should have curdled Emma’s blood and it didn’t.

It couldn’t.

The laughter got louder.

“I’ve been waiting  _ so long _ for you, Savior. You, and that blade you are holding.”

##    
  



	5. The Hero Dies In This One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darlings - you have reached the halfway point, and the end of 5A.  
> Regarding the chapter title -- if you've ever *seen* 5A, this cannot possibly come as a surprise, right?  
> RIGHT?  
> 🤣😘
> 
> So strap in, hold on to something, brace for impact, and remember that somewhere out there, a HEA is waiting for all.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading. 
> 
> We love you.

A twist of her palm and a flick of her wrist, nothing more, and Emma found herself back on the hilltop, the clear, ageless, undefined  _ female _ voice surrounding her. It echoed in the cold and inside her head equally; it sounded like happiness would sound if it wasn’t an emotion but a degree of satisfaction. Wind gushed past her, even colder than the night air, but it was nothing against the thickness of her skin or the heaviness of her robes. Cold was nothing more than information, now--irrelevant, like pain or anger or happiness or tears.

A pale moon shone down on massive hulking stones and a rough-hewn basin and when Emma saw her skin glitter in the dim light it did not shock her. The darkness was no longer impenetrable to her eyes--it was simply a different way of seeing.

_ Everything _ .

“We’ve been waiting for you.”

Emma huffed. Why was everyone always waiting? She lifted her chin, looked past the muted colors of ancient stone and said, “Show yourself.”

The voice laughed and the sound bounced off of the boulders and rang in her head.

A figure emerged from nowhere--from everywhere--appearing before her in the guise of a woman: green-skinned, gold-flecked, solid.

And yet unreal.

“Waiting for me?” Emma’s words rang against the granite and the grass, hollow and disconcerting. It echoed between her temples just like all the others. “Why?”

Pealing laughter, clear as a bell and just as foreboding.

“It’s not every day we get a Dark Savior,” the voice whispered. Its anticipation was almost something Emma could taste in her own mouth. “But you were promised to us, and here you are.”

“Who. The fuck. Are you.”

“I am Nimue,” the voice proclaimed. “I am the First.”

_ Nimue _ .

The voice built up and crested and split apart, multiplying, fracturing; as Nimue lifted her hand and revealed dozens of figures behind her--motionless, black-cloaked, their skin a rainbow of glittered hues, their hands raised just like Nimue’s, who laughed, and they all laughed,

inside Emma’s head

Until she had to suppress the incongruous urge to laugh.

“I am all of the Dark Ones,” she said. The figures vanished and Emma and Nimue were alone again. “I am the first and the last, and I will tell you a secret, Savior.”

_ (Fire the blade.) _

_ (Be free of your fear.) _

Nimue smiled.

Emma flinched.

“You can stop fighting. I am you as well.”

And the voice that Emma heard now--

was her own.

\--

The flask was open, untouched in front of him as he ran his fingers across the pebbled surface and was reminded of Emma’s skin, and the way it felt now; pebbled but still soft, cool but still warm. Like  _ her _ but not.

The library chairs were uncomfortable but Killian could not sit in the room where she had been in the bed where  _ they _ had been and wonder if he had just damned them all to Hell or paved the way for her salvation. The pile of books was still stacked on the table, haphazard and unbalanced. Several lay open where Killian had left them and seeing the Sorcerer’s words in his ancient script only made Killian more angry and uncertain.

Surely, the choice needed to be hers. That was what Merlin had implied, and Killian could not shake the feeling that it was the  _ right _ thing to do. Emma Swan was, above all things, a person of action--but perhaps he should have realized.

There was nothing that Emma Swan feared more than wanting things and he had just asked her to willingly give up what he had promised he would never take away, the one thing she had ever let herself want.

He’d  _ promised _ her.

He should have known, he should have--

_ No.  _ He trusted her.

_ Love was a weapon _ .

But he trusted her not to destroy him. He trusted her to understand what was necessary to defeat the Darkness. He  _ believed _ .

A sniffle carried over from the next shelf, disturbing his ruminations. Carefully Killian pocketed his flask and followed the sound back to Henry, who was crouched over a table staring desperately at a book written in a language he couldn’t read as if he could will the words to make sense.

“Henry,” Killian said. He kept his voice low but Henry jumped.

“I don’t understand,” the boy said. “This isn’t how things are supposed to end.”

Killian’s jaw tightened, and he knew, he  _ knew _ \--he could never separate this boy from his mother. He could never break up this family, this family that had somehow become  _ his _ family. 

They had already had more time together than they were ever meant to.

“And I’m--I’m the freaking  _ Author _ , I should have been able to--”

But the Author was nothing more than another one of Merlin’s diversions, Killian knew now. Merely power unleashed upon the world at Merlin’s whim, for his own amusement. Perhaps even a way of seeding the chaos--and darkness--that would eventually cause Emma to be born. Killian put his hand on Henry’s shoulder and was surprised to feel his weight slumped against his side until there was nothing he could do but wrap him in a one-armed hug as they sat, Henry’s tears falling over the pages of the open book.

This volume had the same distinctive handwriting as the journals he had already found, but the words were different--the language was different. This was not the arcane dialect of the upper-class and the nobility of old Misthaven; it was rough, with only the basest rules of grammar--words and phrases borrowed freely from languages scattered across the port towns that, taken together, formed the smugglers’ argot that Killian had used for his livelihood for nearly two centuries.

_ Someday, there will be a person who is worthy to hold that power and not let it darken their soul. The power is a weight, but love can help--if the heart is ready to be free. _

His blood turned to ice as he read the words.

Killian had heard those words before.

Suddenly the library was full of people.

No--not people. Soldiers.

Armed soldiers, with Arther at their head, still smiling his fake, practiced smile, and Killian put his hand on Henry’s leg, willing the boy to be still.

“How can I help you, Your Highness?”

\--

“Fire the blade.” Nimue’s whisper, finally, out loud. “Be free of your fear--your  _ actual _ fear. Because you’re not afraid of losing. You’re not afraid of dying. But an  _ orphan _ \--” the word twisted in the wind--”an orphan will always be an orphan.”

Nimue pointed down and Emma felt it, the command--the invitation--in her left hand was the sword and in her right hand was the dagger--

“Now then, Savior,” Nimue went on. “Go ahead. Light the flame.”

\-- and as Emma lifted her arms to join them together the leather pouch tumbled to the ground and spilled its contents.

A ring, and a chain.

_ (I love you.) _

_ (Remember who you are.) _

_ (You are enough.) _

“No,” Emma whispered, then: “NO.”

She threw the blades down to the ground and bent to pick up the ring and felt a rush of certainty--of warmth, of love, of the echo of Killian’s voice saying her name, soft, lovely,  _ loving _ .

The power inside of her burst to life and Emma saw the flash of pale skin under her robes and she saw them, saw the sparkles starting to fade.

She,  _ Emma Swan _ , was the Savior.

She,  _ Emma Swan _ , would vanquish the darkness.

That’s what heroes did.

Whatever price there was, it was not Killian’s to pay.

_ (Fire the blade.) _

_ (Be free of your fear. _ )

But--finally--she wasn’t afraid.

\--

“Where is it?”

“Where is what, Majesty?” Killian shifted so that he was just slightly in front of Henry as he spoke.

“Do not play with me,” Arthur snapped, and his facade dropped completely. “My birthright, my destiny. My sword.” He bent forward, menacing, leaning toward Killian. “I know you have it. Give me Excalibur.”

\--

“Oh.” Nimue smiled and started to walk a large circle around Emma, her voice one again amplified as it ricocheted between the boulders. “Tell me, Savior,” and her voice was silky, inviting, “tell me how this will play out.”

Nimue came to stand before Emma once more, closer now, a step away from both blades where they suddenly stood upright in the grass and made Emma’s hands itch.

“Tell me how this will end.”

Emma blinked and the blades were in her hands; she held the tips just far enough apart to keep them from touching and looked Nimue in the eye. “You’re trying to trick me.”

“Am I?” Nimue smirked, and something stirred within Emma, an instinct, a--

Superpower.

With a scream Emma touched the blades and turned around and there,  _ there _ , on the rough-hewn altar a flame sprang up, roaring blue and yellow and green--

\--

“You have it,” Arthur spit. “It was prophesied she would bring it. Merlin prophesied it. He promised that sword would be  _ mine _ .”

And with that, every soldier in the room drew their own.

\--

“Stop me if I’ve got this wrong--” and just for an instant, her voice was Emma’s again “-- You still think this is about  _ sacrifice _ . You still think magic comes at a price.” 

With everything she had Emma channeled the magic through the blades, instinctively drawing on the power of the Flame.

“But what about the price of inaction?”

Nimue snapped her fingers, and there was  _ the library _ , a vision between the stones so clear that Emma felt as though she could walk right into it and Nimue’s voice was in her ear and she said, “ _ This _ is how it ends, Emma.”

And inside a battle was raging--a deafening, discordant symphony of blades--and there was blood,  _ so much blood _ , and there was her son and Killian,  _ Killian _ , outnumbered and outmatched and Emma held up the dagger and the sword and she watched--

\--as Killian parried and twisted, felt a hand give, felt a sword fall, and leapt onto a table as he scrambled for a better vantage point, for  _ Henry _ , where was the lad--

\--watched as the blades melded together--

\--heard Henry, finally, suddenly, yell “No!” and instinctively Killian threw himself sideways, and over, and down and in front of the boy (Milah’s grandson, Bae’s son,  _ Emma’s son--his _ son?) just as the blade connected with flesh--

“No!” Emma screamed it this time, beaten, broken, and

“Yes,” Nimue whispered, close,  _ so close now _ , and the word bounced around the inside of her head. “And this is all you will be for the rest of your life.  _ Alone. _ ”

And Emma could do nothing but stand frozen and watch, watch as steel cut through skin; deadly, unforgiving as it cut through bone and sinew and organ, watched as the red blossomed across Killian’s abdomen, as he fell to his knees, but he’d promised,

_ he’d promised _

_ (I told you, Swan, I’m a survivor.) _

_ (I love you) _

_ (Here, and now, and always) _

_ (We’ve already had more time together than we were ever meant to) _

“Fire the blade,” Nimue murmured, a caress inside of Emma’s skull. “Be free of your fear.”

\--and the flames danced and the blades melded, whole and rejoined--

“You don’t have to be alone, Savior.”

_ (Eternity is a very long time.) _

\--and white-hot as the fire carved new letters into the steel--

_ (You can make a choice.) _

\--spelled another name--

\--KILLIAN JONES.

_ (You should have left the sword alone, Emma.) _

\--

Killian inhaled, deeply, waiting for the signs of his injury to manifest.

It didn’t hurt.

When he inhaled, he could taste the thickness of the air and the way it was underlaid by the metallic scent of blood that covered his clothing, his blade, his surroundings.

But it didn’t hurt, his injury.

Killian shook his head and turned to Henry. “Are you all right?”

“LOOK OUT!” Henry yelled and pulled Killian down beside him just as a blade buried itself behind them and Killian saw Henry, his eyes large and scared, and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Stay down, lad,” he said, removing his hand and re-grasping his sword. “No matter what happens.  _ Stay down.” _

And then he got up, adjusted his grip.

It didn’t hurt.

There was no pain.

No fear.

No doubt.

Killian smiled.

The knowledge of the power was inside of him, as instinctive as  _ how to breathe _ or  _ how to think _ and he reached for it and felt it uncurl and felt its readiness to be put to use.

To be unleashed.

The first blast was violent enough to stagger everyone in the room and the melee recommenced; a flick of his wrist--of his will--and he was on the table again, heightened vantage, not that it mattered. The vaunted Knights of the Round Table were helpless before him and for several long, endless minutes, there was nothing but battle.

Nothing but battle and blood and the feeling of his sword slicing, cutting, rending limb from limb.

Nothing but the steel of his hook rending flesh and bone and muscle and tendon, and it was good, and right, and the power was happy because that’s what the power had been made for, the taste of carnage and the endorphins of victory, and he didn’t hear the voice calling him, the childish, angry, worried, broken voice calling “Killain” until he stood triumphant amidst blood and bodies and saw the shocked eyes of Henry and the smile faded.

Dimly, he became aware of a commotion, of Snow White and the Evil Queen as they burst through the doors and stepped over the corpses of the fallen Knights as they came looking for Henry, and for him.

Killian frowned in confusion, his hand and his hook raised in front of his face as his sword clattered to the stone floor, and he stared at them as though he had never seen them before; at the raised pattern of his skin, and the way it was overlaid with tiny sparkles.

\--

  
  
  
  


Henry was  _ not _ afraid of the dark.

But it was very, very dark; he could see nothing but the faint outline of glowing metal in his mother’s hand, a muted blue that just barely lit the wooden floorboards. There was nothing else in the darkness, just a sense of space and calm and quiet--except for the glowing sword, which was, well, it wasn’t  _ not _ scary, that was for sure--and then suddenly there was a  _ swish _ and--

Light.

They were at the mansion, which didn’t seem possible, but there were the same wall sconces lighting the warm dark wood. The faint glow of the sword remained, it did not change or brighten or diminish and Henry might have preferred it in the dark. He saw the exact same expression of confusion on each face across from him and could feel his own disorientation in the way his forehead crinkled. His grandmother’s eyebrows were drawn together and Regina’s lips were a thin line and Emma--she had no expression at all. She was tense, and her hand was tightly gripping the glowing sword.

She had eyes only for Killian.

Killian was pale and drawn and the muscle in his jaw was throbbing and his hair was standing on its ends and his skin glittered.

Like his mother’s, like his grandfather’s in the drawings Henry had seen in his storybook.

Blood was still dripping off his hook and his clothes were soaked.

In blood.

_ Oh, shit _ .

“Where are we?” Killian’s voice sounded low and raspy and wrong.

“This looks like the sorcerer’s mansion,” Regina said, “but how can we possibly be in Storybrooke again?” Her eyes narrowed as she looked from Killian to Emma and back again. “Not even Dark Ones can just travel between the realms at will. Not without a portal.”

It took a minute for her words to register in Henry’s ears and he was pretty sure he was the only one who noticed what she’d said: Dark Ones. 

_ Plural _ .

Mary Margaret walked over to a window and pulled back a curtain but all Henry could see was trees. Densely growing woodland trees that could have been the Enchanted Forest or the woods around the Merry Men’s encampment, for all he could tell, but Mary Margaret saw more than he did. “We didn’t traverse realms,” she announced. “We’re definitely still in the Enchanted Forest.” Her brow furrowed. “How can this mansion be in the Enchanted Forest and in Storybrooke?”

“Emma.” Regina’s voice was sharp “What destination were you thinking of when you magicked us away from the castle?”

Emma shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. As if none of this mattered, and she couldn’t bring herself to care. “Somewhere safe,” she said. She was still watching Killian.

A thought struck Henry. “Maybe this mansion isn’t part of any realm. Or--maybe it’s part of all of them. Maybe it’s outside of time and space, I mean--we used it to get to New York and Elsa and Anna went back to Arendelle. It could be a--”

“Killian?” Mary Margaret had turned white as a sheet. She stepped forward, gingerly reaching for Killian’s midsection, and Henry saw that the shirt was sliced clean through. It was a long jagged tear that left the hem of the shirt hanging literally by a thread. The entire side of it was black with blood and that was when Henry noticed that it was stiff and dried and carried down to his trousers--to the knees. When Killian took a step back to avoid Mary Margaret’s touch, his shoe print was bloody.

“What is this?” Undaunted, Mary Margaret took another step forward and once again stretched her hand, as though Killian was one of the birds in her birdhouses, and this time he let her lift the shirt.

Henry gasped as Mary Margaret’s eyebrows went clear into her fringe. Regina’s lips were pressed so tightly together he almost couldn’t see them until she turned around and looked at Emma, at the sword in her hand--

“What did you do, Miss Swan?” she demanded, and that’s when Henry noticed for the first time that the sword was whole, unbroken, just like Killian’s skin, and it was  _ still _ glowing.

Emma just stood there, unmoving, upright, looking at Killian as if they were the only two people in the room or maybe in the universe. There was fire in her eyes and her pupils looked different--all of her looked different. Henry moved toward her slowly, mirroring his grandmother’s gentle movements as he reached for the sword, carefully grabbing its twisted tip and pulling it up to the light. He could feel Mary Margaret and Regina watching him, silent and still.

There was a fading edge where the dagger had been molded to the broken sword blade and the glowing was coming from the ornate carvings encasing the letters that spelled out EMMA SWAN. 

But they were not the only letters.

Above her name and slightly to the side, in the same writing, encased by the same engravings, was another name:

KILLIAN JONES.

Time slowed to a near standstill. The only sound was Henry’s own ragged breathing. Finally, Killian spoke.

“Emma?” It was a growl. “What did you do?”

“What I had to,” she said. Her eyes glittered. “What was necessary.”

If Killian’s voice was a growl, then Emma’s was almost a low hiss, careful and quiet and emotionless. He took a step closer to Emma.

“You had to  _ what _ ?” The menace in his voice was unmistakable. It was Captain Hook giving orders and expecting obedience, but relishing the punishment he might mete out if his demands were not met. There was danger there, danger and  _ power _ , and it was so thick Henry felt as though he could cut it with--a sword.

Emma shifted and the movement forced Henry to let go of the sword tip he was still holding and that was when he noticed that Killan’s sword was back in his hands, is if he had conjured it there, unsheathed and still smeared with blood, its tip leaving a path on the floorboards as he advanced on Emma.

Emma brandished Excalibur. “Killian,  _ stop _ ,” she said.

And he did.

Henry could  _ see _ the magic rippling through his skin as he chafed against the command and so could Emma, because her face--for the first time--showed actual emotion.

Remorse--and just a hint of fear. She looked like she had been slapped.

Henry had never seen his mother’s face look like that before.

“I saved your life,” she said. It was a whisper, and it did not sound convincing. She lowered the sword, slowly.

But she shouldn’t have.

Quick as a flash, Killian was in her face, his voice cold fury as he nearly spat. “My life?” he said. “You did this?”

“I did this for  _ us, _ Killian. For you and for me and for  _ us _ . So we could be together.” Emma lifted the sword again, just in time to block a blow--there was a sharp  _ clang _ as Killian parried and Mary Margaret yelled “STOP IT” and Henry felt Regina  _ yank _ him backward by the collar of his shirt--

And then the faint blue glow around Excalibur exploded.

There was a rushing sound, like wind down the side of a mountain, and the blue light expanded outwards. It glowed brighter and brighter and Emma and Killian were both rooted to the floor, fused at the point of their connected swords. The mansion buckled, folding in on itself, and it almost threw Mary Margaret across the room before she managed to just grab a curtain and hold on. The energy kept growing and it was bolts of lightning and deafening  _ cracks _ as the sconces flickered out and it was, again, dark.

(Henry was  _ not _ afraid.)

\--

  
  
  
  


\--

He’s terrified.

He blinks, trying to clear his head, and he notices it isn’t dark any more. Henry looks toward the only source of light, a streetlamp.

A streetlamp outside the window where Mary Margaret is still clutching the curtain, a streetlight that Henry has seen almost every single day of his life. The blue glow is gone and Regina’s grip on his shirt relaxes.

“I think we’re back in Storybrooke,” Henry says.

And then Killian laughs. It’s a terrible sound that strikes terror--real terror--into Henry’s heart, because the only person he has ever heard laugh like that is his grandfather.

_ Not _ the Charming one.

Killian gestures at his tattered clothes and with a mocking bow he says, “May I?” as he snaps his fingers. There’s red smoke and Killian, all in black: leather trousers and boots, a fitted waistcoat and a new leather jacket with a high collar. 

Even his jewelry is black, from his rings to his charms to the stud in his ear.

“It’s not a Charming family outing until there is a wardrobe change,” he says. “Isn’t that what you said,  _ milady? _ That I’m part of the family?”

Mary Margaret shrinks backward and Killian smirks. “Worry not,  _ Your Highness _ . I’m a free man now, free from your pretty blonde distraction of a daughter.”

“Killian--” Emma says. “I made a choice. You would have done the same.”

And Henry knows, he  _ knows _ , that whatever Emma is saying is the absolute  _ wrong _ thing to say even before Killian cuts her off, hatred so thick in his voice that Henry can taste it. “Actually,  _ no _ .”

And Emma can’t hold his gaze.

And Henry sees his grandmother flinch.

“I was willing to die for you, Swan. I was going to  _ give my life _ to save you. Because it was  _ the right thing to do _ . The  _ heroic _ thing. Because I respect your choices. Because I could not destroy this family. Because I believed in you,  _ Savior _ . Perhaps you should have  _ considered that _ before you--”

“I couldn’t lose you,” Emma says. “You know that I could never lose you.  _ You promised _ .”

“So instead of letting me go, you’ve tethered me to your darkness? Forever?” Killin walks up to her, puts his hook squarely over her chest, over hear heart, and Henry shivers. “I don’t know if it’s ever occurred to you, Swan, that I’ve already lived a very long time. I was  _ ready _ .” His hand brushes up against her cheek and his voice softens. “I was going to save you.”

“You were trying to  _ fix _ me,” she says. “I don’t need saving.”

“Aye, the only one you saves you is  _ you _ , is that it?” His laugh is quieter this time, but no less terrible. It’s full of bitterness and anger.

No one answers. Henry feels glued to the floor and all he can do is watch--it’s like a slow-motion trainwreck and there is nothing he can do to stop it.

“Well, the joke’s on you, darling. If it’s forever you want, I’ll give you forever--an eternity of  _ misery _ , because that is what you’ve bestowed upon me.”

Killian steps backward, slowly--one step, and then another--and drops into a fighting stance. He snaps his fingers again and his sword is back in his hand.

And it’s  _ weird _ , so  _ weird _ , to see Killian with magic.

Henry almost wishes he could close his eyes and pretend it’s all a nightmare.

Which it is--only he’s awake, and this is real.

“What do you want?” Emma’s voice is barely above a whisper. “What are you going to do?”

“I want to hurt you,” Killian says, and he smiles again. “I want to hurt you, like you’ve hurt me.”

He lifts his blade.

_ “Enough _ .”

Both of Regina’s hands are raised and for an instant, everything is frozen. Henry’s not sure if it’s magic or the sheer Evil-Queen-ness of her voice, but it works--and that’s something.

Killian’s head is cocked, as though he is listening to a voice only he can hear--or so Henry thinks.

“The darkness doesn’t care what you want,” Emma says, and it’s as if she is answering a question. She’s not moving, her eyes once again focused on Killian as though there is no one else in the room. “It only cares what it wants.”

“As long as I get what I want, I don’t give a damn about the rest,” Killian says. “And you, of all people, should understand that. Who would have guessed, Swan, that back on that beanstalk--I was the one who was wrong about  _ you _ ?”

Henry’s sure he isn’t breathing.

He’s sure that  _ none of them _ are breathing. 

Killian moves, just a single step forward, and Regina’s spell is broken.

But Killian’s words are their own kind of spell.

“You’re so afraid of losing the people you love that you push them away. That’s why you’ll always be an orphan. You don’t need some villain sweeping in to destroy your happiness--you do that quite well all on your own.”

With each word Emma flinches. It’s just a flicker of her eyelash, but Henry knows his mother and the way she get when she wants everyone to think she is okay but really, she is the opposite of okay.

“Ten hours, Swan,” he says. “Seems fitting, doesn’t it? Ten hours until the full moon.” He closes the distance between himself and Emma, he shifts his head, angling it so that their eyes are level and there’s barely an inch between them.

He bites his lip. “Welcome to eternity, love,” he breathes.

With another snap, he’s gone.

\--

Mary Margaret spares no thought for the nature of immortality of Dark Ones, has no understanding of the magic that compels Killian when Emma commands him; all she sees is her  _ daughter _ turn against the man she loved, the man who had been ready to lay down his life for her. She sees Killian, this man who had become her family out of his determination and strength to conquer his demons, to prove his love and his loyalty and his  _ honor _ , hurl insults like weapons with the intent to do damage, each one cutting into Emma’s flesh as surely as if they had been arrows.

And then he’s gone. There’s a puff of red smoke and it’s only the four of them, this strange little family that, perhaps, should never have existed but is the very bedrock and foundation of Mary Margaret’s world. There are footsteps behind her--running, familiar--and there is her husband, breathless. 

“Grandpa!” Henry runs straight for him like he hasn’t done since the first curse, as though he is a scared child again who just needs the comfort of someone’s arms around him. Emma is stock-still, unmoving since Killian left; Regina watches Henry, but her focus is elsewhere.

“Miss Swan.” Regina’s voice could freeze fire. “What did you do?”

“I made a choice.” The words are simple but the weight of them is something that Mary Margaret feels on her heart. Emma’s eyes are narrowed and focused. “I made a choice to protect what I  _ needed _ .”

“I would say that you chose poorly, but that would seem like a massive understatement.”

Suddenly there is emotion in Emma’s face--detached,  _ wrong _ , but it’s there--and she says, “You’re going to lecture me about life choices,  _ Your Majesty _ ? When your choices are the reason we all ended up here in the first place? When I saved you from--”

“Emma.” Mary Margaret speaks softly and Emma whirls on her.

“No,  _ mother _ , she made a choice, and  _ you _ made a choice, and I ended up here, alone. For twenty-eight years. And  _ now _ you’re going to care? About  _ her _ ?”

There is nothing like watching your daughter, the baby you had to give away, the girl you never got to see grow up, the woman you’ve done your best to get to know--to  _ love _ \--lift a jagged blade out of a legend and use it against the love of her life. And Mary Margaret knows in that moment that no matter how hard she tried, how much she’d hoped, how much they’d built between them--it hasn’t been  _ enough _ .

That Emma still sees herself as that little Lost Girl, and that hurts. It’s a small hurt on top of all of the others and it’s nothing compared to Henry when he says, “You didn’t have to do this.” Mary Margaret can see it written all over his face: He’s  _ crushed _ . “Killian found a way, he had a plan--”

Emma is agitating and snapping when she says, “He was going to  _ die _ , Henry, don’t you understand?” 

Henry shrinks back, Regina pulling him close against her.

“It wasn’t your choice to make,” Mary Margaret says. Her heart might actually be breaking and her words are barely a whisper.

“And now you have to make it anyway,” Regina says. “Emma, why didn’t you come to us--”

“I didn’t  _ need _ you!” Emma screams. “I had Henry, and Killian.  _ That is all I need. _ ”

“We were supposed to be a team.” Henry’s angry now.

Emma’s face is impassive again and Mary Margaret looks at Regina, sees her stepmother looking back. There’s fear on Regina’s face.

“Emma, what is Hook going to do? What happens in ten hours?” David looks clueless, upset and anxious. 

_ Ten hours.  _ Mary Margaret remembers.

“ _ That story didn’t exactly have a happy ending.” _

“How can we help?” It’s obvious to Mary Margaret that David is restraining himself from reaching for Emma, to touch her, to comfort her.

“You can’t.” Emma’s gaze lands on her father. “He’s going to unleash the Darkness, untether it and release hell on earth Tonight at the full moon.”

David is undeterred. “Then how do we stop him?”

“We can’t,” Regina says. Her voice is an incongruous mixture of understanding and horror. “Only Emma can, and the only way for her to stop it is to kill him and destroy the Darkness.”

“That can’t be the only way,” David says.

“It’s not,” Emma says.

David exhales, his relief visible until--

“I can make the sacrifice,” Emma says. “I can contain the Darkness, and use the sword on myself to destroy it.”

Emma’s eyes are like a stranger’s. “One of us has to die. It’s him or me.”

Mary Margaret can feel the blood draining from her face.

“There’s no Saviors in this town anymore,” Emma says.

\--

It pleases him to watch her. It always has, for she is a thing of beauty; even now, sculpted by the Darkness, she radiates power and beauty.

It’s cold now, though, cold and broken and lifeless, and he did that to her and this also pleases him.

Hook watches her through the window, watches her shut herself away from her  _ family _ , from the life and warmth and love she had so craved, and knows that he will take this from her, too.

_ (Unleash the Darkness.) _

_ (Seek your revenge.) _

It’s a voice both in his head and out loud, a voice that takes the shape of a woman. Green skin sparkles from under a black hood and Hook knows her name.

“Nimue,” he says. He raises his eyebrow and tilts his head.

“Do you think she will try to stop us?” The voice changes, modulates. It’s Emma’s voice and a vision of her stands before him--not like the one he watches but one of her as she used to be, in her red leather jacket and golden hair that he can still smell and smooth skin that he can still feel against his own if he closes his eyes even for a second. His jaw twitches and he tamps it down, ruthlessly smothering the flames alight within him, the reaction of his body and his blood and his cock.

He still loves her--he still wants her--and the Darkness will not let him forget it.

“It matters not,” he says, turning away from the vision and back to the window. “Whatever she does, I win. Either Hell will be unleashed or I shall be free--of her, and of  _ this _ . I don’t need to kill her.”

“Now you care what happens to me?” Emma’s voice again and he closes his eyes and feels her, feels  _ them _ , can feel the softness of her lips against his and the silkiness of her hair in his fingers and when he opens her eyes she is still there.

“This is not who you wanted to be, Killian.”

Darkness and anger and pain and hatred, for centuries upon centuries. He cannot withstand it and he is already too far gone and he will unleash it, destroy  _ her _ , and force her to make a real choice.

“If you didn’t want me to change, you should have let me die.”

Force her to face the consequences.

“All of my life, everyone I loved abandoned me.”

“I didn’t.” He spits the words at her.

“I know. Im sorry.” The words are brittle. “I couldn’t watch one more person I love die.”

Villains don’t get happy endings.

“And now,” he breathes, “because of that, you get to watch everyone you love die.” He steps forward, into her space, and he would swear he feels her breathing against him as he fights the urge to  _ take her _ .

“I love you,” she whispers. “Killian, I love you.”

“That man died in Camelot. All that is left is what you made me.”

“This is because of me,” she says, and it’s exactly what he wanted to hear her say, to admit, to face, and it feels empty. Hollow. It echoes inside of him.

“It’s too late.” He pushes her, surprised to feel weight under his hand, and raises his voice. “It’s too late. You should have trusted me, Emma. Trusted me the way that I trusted you.”

“I’m not giving up. Not tonight. Not ever.” She fades and he shakes his head. 

Hears Nimue behind him.

_ (Unleash the Darkness.) _

_ (Seek your revenge.) _

Hook looks out the window, where he can see Henry staring back, as if he  _ knows _ . “Enjoy this time you have left with your family, Swan.”

\--

And this is how it ends.

Emma meets him by the docks, along the shore. She knows where that’s where he’ll be because she still--after all of this--knows him. 

“Well then,” he says. His hair is greasy and untidy and his slitted-pupil eyes are bloodshot and his skin, like hers, glitters in the fading sunlight.

She approaches, and she looks for it in his face--the man she knows, the man she  _ loves _ \--and it hits her, that she’s still never said the words.

Not really.

Not the way that he deserves to hear them, but it’s not  _ him _ , it’s--he’s--something else. Not Killian. Someone who knows her, can read her, the way that Killian does but there’s the easy, careless casual cruelty of the pirate, and  _ she did this _ .

(In her dream, she whispered it to the tombstone. “I love you,” her voice sounding battered and bruised and broken; she couldn’t tell if he could hear her, if he could see her, if she was even real to him.)

(If he was real at all--if either of them were.)

Deep inside of Emma’s numbness, there is pain.

_ (You can make the choice, Emma Swan.) _

_ (You can follow the Darkness, or you can follow the light.) _

“Let’s see what you’re really made of, Swan.” There’s no other warning before he’s moving to disarm her. A steel blade swings towards her, the perfect marriage of heft and razor sharp edge and momentum, and is stopped in its path toward her neck by the steel in her own hands and the desperate brute force of muscle and will.

“So this is how it ends. Not with a whimper. With a  _ bang _ .” 

(And deep inside of her, something stirs; his voice and his affect and the easy way he manipulates words, making innuendo into a weapon.)

Kinetic energy converts into potential energy with a literal bang, and she nearly staggers.

But not quite. This will not best her.

“How fitting.” 

She pulls back her sword, and looks up at his face. It’s contorted now, and unfamiliar. This is pure rage unlike anything she has seen before. 

(She did this.)

( _ She _ did this.)

“How fitting that I will be the one to send you to meet your maker.”

She strikes a blow so fast he barely has time to parry.

Their hilts lock, bring her face up against his. She can feel his breath. The pain inside of her gains strength.

(She’d had a choice.)

(She’d had a choice, and she’d made it.)

“I  _ am _ your maker,” she hisses and even underneath all his fury, he flinches. She steps back and drops into fighting stance: Deceptively loose, coiled and ready to strike.

Just the way he taught her.

(She’d made the  _ wrong choice _ , she knows this.)

“You’re going to hell,” he snarls, advancing.

She thrusts. “I’ll save you a seat,” she says.

_ You can make the choice, Emma. _ _  
_ _ Eternity is a very long time. _   
(She saw a tombstone.  _ Killian Jones. _ And then--

_ Emma Swan _ )

_ You can follow the Darkness, or you can follow the Light. _

“Let’s finish this.”

\--

There is comfort in his hatred.

_ (You’ve fought the Darkness for centuries, Killian; you understand its nature better than most.) _

_ (Perhaps there is a person who is worthy to hold that much power and not let it darken their soul.) _

Fool that he was, he’d believed in her. Believed in her, in  _ them _ , in the light she had brought into his life after centuries of darkness. Yes, he understood the Darkness better than most.

It was the only thing that had never betrayed him.

_ (The tests that you will face, Captain, will be greater than you can possibly imagine.) _

Killian watches as the metal arcs through the air at this woman he used to love, who had betrayed him and them and the light they had created between them, and it feels like contentment. Like a destiny not written  _ for _ him but  _ by _ him.

He can feel  _ them _ , too, the Dark Ones pushing against their tethers now that the blade has been fired and Excalibur is whole again, can feel them all straining against their bonds, begging to run free.

He can’t wait to free them.

  
  


He takes a step forward.

And another.

He’s playing with the sword--toying with it. Toying with her, a raptor with its prey, and then--

It’s in her face, one smooth, deadly motion and a sword tip inches from her nose.

He will snuff out that light--her light. He will snuff it out and then watch as she loses everything she claims to love, as she loses the light,  _ his Savior _ . He will destroy the light that had led him to her, a Lost Boy just looking for a home. 

“No home,” he spits. “No warmth. No family. No  _ hope _ , Savior.”

He relents, stepping back.

“What’s left?”

He will destroy the light that had led them to each other. He will snuff out every bit of Emma’s light and he will watch her as she falls over the edge into complete darkness, where she has left him. 

“I would have done this for you, Swan. I would have done anything  _ you asked _ . I would have chained myself to the darkness, willingly given myself back to it,  _ if you had asked me to.  _ Because I  _ trusted  _ you. Because I  _ promised _ you. Because I  _ loved _ you. But, no.”

He will watch her as she is forced to give up the notion that  _ she _ is good and he will watch her break.

Not because she succumbed to Darkness.

Because she has no choice but to accept her utter absence of light.

“I found another way. Because that’s what  _ heroes _ do.”

Because she has no choice but to understand that there is no using her power for good.

“You never asked me what I wanted.” His voice was a hiss. “You never asked me what I would be willing to give. You just  _ took _ .”

There is only Darkness.

Darkness, with no promise of light.

Love was a weapon.

“I never asked for any of this!” It’s a scream, and Excalibur nearly rips the sword from Killian’s hand. Her eyes are large and full of rage and fear and yet they are shuttered, closed to him for the first time since they’d met. “I was taken from my parents and ignored for twenty-eight years. My son was raised by someone else and he shows up at my door and gives me a mission, he tells me it’s my fucking job to save  _ everyone _ and you know what? I did.”

She’s meeting--matching--every single one of his attacks with her blade infused by her power and the power of every Dark One since the beginning of time. She is feeding power to the line of Dark Ones clamoring at the power of her blade as if she’s holding a belay line.

“But here’s the part they left out,  _ lover _ : Evil never rests, never gets vanquished, never  _ really _ loses and it’s just you against the goddamn universe, saving everyone over” -- _ clang _ \-- “and over” -- _ clang _ \-- “and over again until  _ everyone dies _ and all you get in return is to be alone.  _ Forever _ .”

Emma’s sword is against his neck, and the gesture is nearly useless, locked as they are in immortality, and he’s--

“At least  _ you _ got to decide what kind of man you wanted to be!”

With a roar she spins and feints left and he follows her, parries her feint, and she twists up and to the right and  _ there, _ her blade connects, and there is pain.

He’s bleeding.

_ (Remember the nature of love.) _

It glints in the last rays of the dying sunlight and he sees it: Liam’s ring.

_ No matter what. _

_ I am here. _

_ With you. _

_ Always. _

His blade comes down her left side and tears part of the sleeve from her jacket, and he can see the skin underneath. 

And it looks like  _ skin _ . Normal, human skin. The sparkles are fading, nearly gone, and then--

_ The tests that you will face, Captain, will be greater than you can possibly imagine. _

She lifts her chin. It’s a small movement, one nobody would notice if they did not know her face well. If they did not know her face better than their own heartbeat. Killian knows her face, every inch of it, has catalogued every twitch and flutter and wrinkle and he knows what this means.

Emma’s chin-lift is a powerful tell, and he knows it, knows it better than the boards of the  _ Jolly Roger _ , and it means one thing, and one thing only.

_ Remember the nature of love. _

_ Love is giving someone the ability to destroy you--and trusting them not to. _

_ Perhaps there is a person who is worthy to hold that much power-- _

Emma has made a decision.

_ \--and not let it darken their soul. _

He falters.

\--

“Fight it. You can choose Light over Darkness.”

Merlin’s voice, disembodied and far-away.

“The power is a weight on the soul. Love can help.”

Killian’s in bed with her, all blue eyes and scruff and warm fingers whispering across her skin.

“I thought I lost you.” His voice is scratchy.

(She was cold, but she could not see her breath.)

“Darkness takes hold of a person,” Merlin says. “Is your heart ready to be free?”

Killian leans over, kisses her. His lips are soft, and she melts into it.

“Don’t scare me like that again. Please, love. Please don’t.”

(She could have stopped it.)   
(She  _ should have  _ stopped it.)

And Nimue’s voice is in her ear and she says, “ _ This _ is how it ends, Emma.”

\--

_ Clang. _

A vicious thrust connects with Emma’s blade and sends her reeling, seriously off-balance for the first time since they started fighting in earnest, and she feels a small spike of worry.

What if this is  _ not  _ how it ends?

She can feel them.

Power and Darkness in an unbroken chain through the ages. Growling like hounds at the gate still locked. But weakening.

They will break through soon.

She can feel them. 

She can feel.

She cannot place it, but she knows--no matter what happens, he has heard her.

Because he will  _ always _ hear her.

_ Pain _ . It shoots up her spine and steals her breath, excruciating as Excalibur reverberates from the sheer force of the blow and Emma feels--

( _ When I jab you with my sword you’ll feel it) _

_ Emma feels _ and she could almost cry from the relief of it.

But her body does not remember how to cry. She can’t cry, just as she can no longer sleep, or eat, or feel true joy, but she knows that deep inside her empty heart, grief beats just as true as loss. 

He does not pull his punches as the swords cross, a deafening  **clang** as the curved blade and the straight interlock and  _ she will not go out like this _ .

Not today.

Not ever.

Neither of them will.

She will fix this.

Emma ducks his thrust, avoids hook, hand and sword as they seem to defy the laws of physics

_ Action and reaction _

_ Equal and opposite _

And with a roar she spins and feints left and he follows her, parries her feint, and she twists up and to the right and her blade connects with his arm and splits his jacket like tissue paper.

His jacket and the shirt and the skin beneath it and she has drawn first blood and she feels that, too, a hum in her veins and a buzzing in her mind as she watches it trickle with detached fascination.

He can bleed.

She can feel.

It doesn’t have to end like this.

She can fix it.

(She can fix  _ him _ .)

Emma braces her feet and keeps pushing against Killian’s hilt while she wraps their tethers around Excalibur, binds them, binds herself, binds him, and she sees Killian’s eyes

_ Killian’s eyes _

He is looking at her, that look in his eyes–soft and sad and knowing. The eyes that have said  _ I love you _ since long before she was ready to hear it. They are windows to his soul and they’ve shown her everything, everything she ever wanted to have, everything she was ever afraid to want.

He falters.

Power and fury scream down the length of the blade, and they are here.

They are here, and it’s time.

It’s time.

The Dark Ones are howling in her ears.

Emma takes a deep breath and looks around: at Henry, brave and honest and still so very full of faith in the goodness of people. Her mother and father who made her the Savior even though their hearts had been broken by the choice and she realizes suddenly that they have been trying to atone ever since. She should have forgiven them. 

There is Regina who looks straight back at her and  _ knows _ and Emma feels something that might be relief at the knowledge that Regina will make sure that Henry never forgets who the real Emma was, that he won’t be alone, that he’ll have his grandparents and Regina and--

Killian.

It’s time.

Emma pulls back Excalibur and twists the hilt, spins the blade. It needs to align with the heart and she heaves and pushes and pierces the skin, down through her breastbone.

(It doesn’t even hurt.)

With the last of her strength she hurls herself at Killian, one last tearful goodbye; she is sobbing,  _ sobbing _ , emotions so strong they are painful as they rush through her and she feels his lips on hers and lets gravity do the rest as they both fall to the ground. There is screaming, but Emma cannot hear it; there is Excalibur, shoved clean through her heart and out the other side and she has  _ made it right _ , now.

_ I love you. _ _  
_ _ I love you. _

There is a pulse of warmth and light and energy and then--

There is silence.

_ now i lay me down to sleep _ __  
_ i will not scream _ _  
_ __ i will not weep.

_ if i should die before he wakes-- _

Silence, and a sense of relief.

\--

Mary Margaret tries to pull back Henry, who has yanked himself hard from Regina’s grip and stares at his mother, his  _ mother _ , his eyes wide, his face pale, his eyes open. She tries to pull him back and tells him not to look but Mary Margaret knows that he will see this no matter what. There is nothing she can do.

She sees her daughter, the  _ Savior _ , jab and thrust and draw blood.

She can’t look at them.

And she can’t look away.

She can only watch as these two people who found themselves in each other, who found each other beyond the boundaries of space and time, destroy each other. And then they fall and Mary Margaret is running,  _ running _ \--she’s crying, she is shaking from the emotion rolling through her but someone needs to be there--

With the body.

She’s a mother, and she just watched  _ her daughter _ \--she might vomit, she might, and she feels David come up behind her, wrapping his arms around her--

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

It wasn’t supposed to end.

\--

Her ears pop and her eyelids flutter as Emma opens her eyes and looks around.

She’s in the driver’s seat of her Beetle.

Inside a decrepit, run-down amusement park.

Alone.


	6. Salvation Comes Only In Dreams

  
  


Her ears pop and her eyelids flutter as Emma opens her eyes and looks around.

She’s in the driver’s seat of her Beetle.

Inside a decrepit, run-down amusement park.

Alone.

“Well.”

Emma flinches, half-expecting a hooded figure to pop up in the backseat--but the voice is coming through the open window and says, as the passenger door is yanked open, “That didn’t exactly go as planned.”

A man plunks down next to her--a hooded man, wearing ripped jeans and biker boots and as he slowly pushes the hood back from his forehead, Emma gasps.

It’s Merlin.

_ It’s Merlin _ .

“But I--” Emma starts and stops and has to force herself to try again. “But you--”

He smiles, and it’s open and genuine and relaxed and carefree and he looks  _ younger _ , somehow.

“You look different,” is all she says, which seems a bit--well. It’s not like there’s a greeting card for when you’ve run into the man you’ve killed.

In the--afterlife?

“So do you,” he says, and Emma has to take a breath, to steel herself, before she looks down at her hands.

Her normal hands that don’t sparkle.

She aglances into the rearview mirror and sees her own reflection staring back at her. She’s back in her jeans and her boots and her red leather jacket, there’s the chain around her neck and she feels like--

Like she is remembering herself. Remembering  _ Emma _ , stretching a muscle that is stiff and protesting from its disuse and she realizes she has no idea how long she has been here.

Or, more immediately, where  _ here _ is.

She wants to giggle and cry at the same time as something inside of her begins to  _ hurt _ , like a punch to the gut, and suddenly she is certain of one thing: The Darkness is gone.

Wait.

“What didn’t go as planned?” Emma asks, suddenly suspicious, and it’s not the dark, icky, crawling paranoia kind of suspicious, it’s the ordinary, baseline, “my superpower is acting up” kind of suspicious. Which is--good, right? 

She destroyed the Darkness.

And its human vessel.

She’s dead, isn’t she? That  _ was _ the plan.

“Where are we?”

Merlin’s eyes narrow as he looks her up and down. “Just another crossroads,” he says, and Emma hears the note of disdain there. “Apparently you just keep getting choices no matter how often you fuck them up.” Anger flares hot inside of her--how dare he? He didn’t just sacrifice himself instead of letting someone he loved  _ die _ .

Then again.

She did kill  _ him _ .

“Tell me, what is this place?” She asks instead. “Am I--is this hell?”

Tarps flap in a gusting wind, hinges that haven’t been oiled in years creak mournfully. A broken Ferris wheel carriage swings by one last tether. 

Merlin laughs out loud. At  _ her _ . He’s laughing at her and he says, “Not even close.” Then he bends forward. “Now you tell me, Emma--” and there’s a hint of an edge in his tone “--what exactly do you remember?”

_ Clang _ .

A swordfight by the lake.

_ Clang. _

A choice--to defeat the Darkness. To become the Savior, after all.

_ Clang _ .

The  _ right _ choice, this time.

_ Clang. _

The eyes of her son--of her mother.

The blue of  _ his eyes _ and the sword in her hands as she kissed him, as they fell together, and a burst of rainbow light.

_ A burst of rainbow light _ .

She’d freed Killian from the Darkness.

She’d freed both of them.

She’d fixed it, she can feel it, she can feel the person she used to be, and it’s--

“Wrong,” Merlin says. He raises a withering eyebrow. “Very interesting, but  _ very _ wrong.”

Emma shifts in her seat and  _ fucking hell _ she’s in that movie theater chair all over again, caught out by someone who knows more than he should, but she is not a child anymore.

She’s also not the Dark One.

“Look, I’m sorry I took your sword, okay? But you were cryptic as hell and I was  _ obviously _ not in my right mind and what the fuck did you think was gonna happen, anyway, you with all of your ‘I foresaw this’ crap?”

“I thought you would do the right thing,  _ Savior _ . But you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t try to bend the world to your will.” There’s more than a hint of an edge now. There’s an entire freaking knife. “I thought you would let him go.”

“Like you did?” she snarls. “Do you have any idea what Nimue did to me? What it felt like to have her in my head, watching me, watching Killian--”

It flashes before her eyes again, just like at the stone circle--the sword slicing through his abdomen, again, and again, and again. Emotions are pounding down on her, barbarians at the gates of hell, and for a brief moment she yearns for the numbness, because all she can think of is Killian.

Of this look in his eyes as they fell.

Of his lips on hers and a bright, blinding light.

“There’s no more Darkness,” she says, softly. “And I did let him go.”

“So you did,” Merlin nods. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Stop with your goddamn riddles,” Emma says, and she’s crying now, though it takes her a minute to notice, to register the feeling of the tears streaming down her face. She’s tired and frustrated and confused and she just--

She misses him.

So much.

And it hits her, suddenly, that she is never going to see him again, and she wishes again for the numbness.

Merlin sighs. “Emma, you have to choose between what is good, and what is right. That’s what you can’t seem to understand. You won’t survive this journey if you don’t do the  _ right _ thing.”

“I don’t understand.” It’s a whisper. Her voice is not working.

“You never do,” he says. “It’s really annoying.”

Then he meets her gaze and his tone becomes earnest.

“You have to do what’s  _ right _ . For once in your life, Savior--listen to me.”

“You sound like my kid,” Emma says, and if she closes her eyes she can hear Henry’s voice echoing the words.

He opens the car door and gets out, gesturing for her to follow him.

“Please,” he says, and it’s the ‘please’ that gets her, gets her to move when Merlin points toward a swinging door. It’s part of the weathered facade of a mock saloon called THE PIGS & THE WOLF. The paint is chipped and the words are faded; it is the opposite of welcoming.

“Right through there,” Merlin says.

“What’s through there?”

Merlin smiles. It’s once again open and genuine. “The rest of your story. Go on.”

But--her story is over. 

That’s what happens when you die.

But there’s nothing else to do, so Emma opens her own door and climbs out. She pulls her shoulders back and straightens herself to her full height as she starts walking toward the unknown, and then Merlin calls her back.

“Emma!”

She turns, and he’s leaning against the bright yellow car, young and happy and without a care in the world. “About New York--”

She shudders.

“Don’t blame yourself too much,” he says, pulling up his hoodie. “I really  _ did _ see it coming. You just changed the ending a bit.”

He disappears, and Emma stands there, watching the space where he used to be, for a long time before she finally gathers up enough courage to turn and walk past the saloon doors into the darkness beyond.

\--

[[SB]]

He is not the person he remembers.

When he wakes up next to her in the middle of the night, shaking and filled with both rage and fear, he is different. When he walks down the street and people turn to avoid him, he is different. When he hears the whispers around him, words like darkness and sealed fate, he is different.

She is not.

She cups his cheek when he gets lost in his fury, and he finds himself again in the calm of her eyes. She makes them recede, the madness and the anger that have both come back to plague him now that he walks in space and time again. She says his name like it means something to her.

It means nothing to him.

But in a corner of his heart of darkness, a corner he protects with everything he has, he loves that she says his name like that. Or he would, if he still knew how to love.

\--

[[UW]]

It was a tunnel--a familiar tunnel, and if everything wasn’t already so weird that would probably be at the top of her mind, the way the saloon doors had led to this tunnel that looked just like the ones the dwarves had carved out below Storybrooke. Everything was bathed in a strange red glow, and there was complete and utter silence.

No, not silence.

Absence of sound.

It was cold, cold enough she could see her breath--which, that  _ was  _ weird, because dead people didn’t breathe.

She followed the track as it twisted to her left and changed direction, rounded the bend that would take her farther under Storybrooke, if this was Storybrooke, and there stood a man. He was blonde with an impeccably tailored black suit and there was something vaguely manic about him, in the way that his expression was both wickedly joyous, like he was happy to see her, but also bored. 

Then he smiled the kind of supercilious grin that would make Regina look friendly.

“Ah,” he said, his voice a mellifluous blend of sarcasm and fake sincerity. “Emma Swan. I’ve been waiting for you.”

_ For fuck’s sake. _

If she never had to hear that phrase again--ever--it would be too soon.

But the man was still talking.

Of course he was.

“Now let’s see what kind of welcome we can offer a Dark One who stumbles into my land of lost souls but--” his mouth quirked “--never paid the price?”

“The price?” Emma almost didn’t recognize her own voice and the way it was laced with fear.

Real fear.

“Charon,” the man said. “You owe him some gold.”

The image enveloped her before she could stop it: Killian guiding her hand as they traced the stars, telling her the myths that named the constellations, and the stories of the gods and goddesses above and below.

He spoke Greek, because  _ of course he did _ . 

And thinking that, of the way his hand felt wrapped around hers as they lay on the deck of the  _ Jolly Roger _ \--it  _ hurt _ .

“I didn’t come by way of the ferryman,” she said. “I--there was an amusement park. And an old, well--” she paused, shaking her head, because the word ‘friend’ just wouldn’t come out and didn’t really apply.

“Ah,” the man sighed. “Well.”

He was silent for a long while, just looking at Emma until her eyes watered from trying to look at him without blinking too much. Her fingertips fizzed, as if a current was running through them, but there was no sense of magic behind it.

Just unease.

Finally he said, “I suppose it doesn’t matter.” His voice was light and noncommittal and his smile was truly terrifying--all the more so because it seemed genuine. “You’re here now, Dark One. So we’d better get on with it.”

For a moment courage sparked inside of her. “I think your information is a bit out of date,” she said. “I’m not the Dark One anymore.”

“Forgive me.” He made a mocking bow. “ _ Savior _ .” It sounded as though he was tasting the syllables and it rolled through her body like something slimy and gross; the hope fizzled out just like the magic had.

“You’re Hades, aren’t you?” He was in the stories, too--though none of them had prepared her for this. Emma could feel the danger underneath the impeccable appearance of the man--of the place--danger and violence and evil at a simmer just below the surface and knew instinctively that this  _ creature _ could crush her bones or blow her mind or invite her to a ridiculously proper high tea and they would all be the same thing to him.

“I am,” he said, and it was just like his smile, and his affect, laced with something manic and terrible as he suddenly growled, “You’re in  _ my realm _ now.”

And with a wave of his hand--

There was a cemetery. 

The sky was blood red, an ominous twilight that was bright and flat at the same time and she’d  _ seen this _ before. She’d seen it in her dreams, but was unprepared for the tombstones, endless and stretching from horizon to horizon. Some of them were knocked over, some of them had no inscription, some were splintered apart. The grass was manicured, strangely well-kept, almost unnaturally perfect as though it was merely an extension of the god himself and, like him, it had a feeling of something terrible underneath its impeccable appearance. 

He was still smiling at her when he said, “I have something to show you,” and stepped aside, and there was a tombstone.

_ Emma Swan _ , it said.

“Welcome to the Underworld, Savior.”

She blinked and the vision flickered--

“And I’m sorry to inform you that it’s  _ your _ information that’s a bit out of date.”

The name on the tombstone was  _ Killian Jones _ .

“No.” It wasn’t even a whisper, it was a breath of despair.

“Yes,” whispered Hades, a sound that was more like a hiss--like a giggle. She looked up at him and he rolled his eyes. “Your face,” he said, as if that was an explanation. “Your face, it’s just--it’s  _ priceless _ . I couldn’t resist.”

Emma shook her head and squared her shoulders and turned to look back at the stone, at the letters that were jumbled, that were out of focus and fucking dancing before her eyes, because it couldn’t be,

_ it couldn’t be _

She had not sacrificed herself for nothing.

_ She had not sacrificed herself for nothing _ .

“Oh,” Hades said, as though he had forgotten. He said it and smiled, brutality in a bespoke suit, and the way he was smiling was a claxon against her superpower, sirens for a five-alarm fire. “Before I forget--I think you might want this.”

He leaned forward and placed something on top of the tombstone--

A dulled, dirty metal hook.

Dripping blood.

\--

[[SB]]

Sometimes the rage comes on like a tidal wave and swallows him whole. It explodes outward, seeping from every pore, and he finds himself walking the streets in retracing the footsteps of his own darkness, wayward spells shooting from his ravaged hand and doing damage.

Real damage.

Damage  _ she _ has to fix.

“I can fix it,” she whispers, as though it is meant to soothe--and she does, but  _ it doesn’t _ .

She finds him every time; no matter how lost he gets, she finds that corner of his heart where he is still human, and she brings him back. She kisses him gently and tells him that she loves him like that should mean something.

He wishes he could say it back.

(Wishes he could  _ feel _ it back.)

\--

[[UW]]

It was a trick, it was obviously a trick; it had to be a trick.

Killian wasn’t here.

Killian couldn’t be here.

She was crying as Hades again twisted his hand and disappeared into a cloud of smoke,  _ sobbing _ , great heaving painful sounds that were ripped from her body as she sank down in front of the headstone and she just felt--

_ She felt _ .

It was as if the weight of everything she’d done was bearing down on her, squeezing her, wringing her out until she had nothing left inside of her, just the hook in her shaking hands that she sat and rubbed with her jacket, trying to get it clean, for what felt like hours.

But what was time in a place like this?

_ Eternity is a very long time _ .

In the end Emma got up simply because it was something to do, and because she could no longer sit and stare at the letters that spelled his name.

She picked a direction and started walking, her breath making little puffs in the cold, dry air as she followed the line of the cemetery toward--

Storybrooke.

It was broken, twisted, red-hued; the remains of the clock tower were splintered across Main Street and people shuffled along under hunched shoulders and bent backs as they watched her, shooting furtive glances in her direction. It was so very fitting somehow--that and the sense of hopelessness that pushed against her nerve endings like a dull ache--but where there was Storybrooke, there was a diner. 

And where there was a diner, there was going to be coffee. Maybe even hot chocolate with fucking cinnamon and Emma was going to go and have some. She tucked the hook carefully into the waistband of her jeans so that it pressed against the small of her back  _ just like his hand had done _ , and choked back a sob.

\--

[[SB]]

He doesn’t remember her, not really.

But he misses her, somehow. Misses feeling her.

Misses feeling.

\--

[[UW]]

“Would you like gingerbread or children?”

The blind woman behind the counter looked absolutely deranged as she asked it, and then looked almost affronted when Emma asked for coffee instead.

“I was just kidding,” she said. “But the gingerbread’s actually not bad.”

Emma opened her mouth to respond but was cut off when a voice from behind her rang out like a cracked bell.

“Savior!” There was rage and devious pleasure rolling off of it in waves. “Could it be? Is it really you? I’ve been waiting--”

No. Emma was  _ done _ with that.

She turned and found herself face-to-face with Cruella deVil.

“You can’t have been waiting that long,” Emma said. “Your roots aren’t even showing yet.”

And she turned back to her coffee.

The blind witch behind the counter cackled.

“Is this the one who shafted you? The Savior?” She licked her lips and pointed her sightless eyes toward Cruella. Her voice became a stage whisper. “Isn’t she the one who killed you?”

Every person in the diner stopped speaking and perked up, and Emma felt the mood shift from merely sullen to outright antagonistic.

Emma’s fingers twitched and before she could stop herself there was the flick of her wrist and--nothing.

Which was, in its way, a relief; a reminder that the Darkness and its magic was gone. So she exhaled and breathed a little deeper and  _ reached  _ and felt--nothing. 

Nothing came and nothing conjured, like the place inside of her where the magic was, it was empty.

And cold.

And--dead.

Which. Okay, so was she, but there was  _ nothing _ , not even the echoing buzz in her fingertips she’d felt in the tunnel. It was like turning over a key in an ignition and hearing nothing but a click. Panic struck hard as she looked at her hands, her plain, calloused,  _ human _ hands, and felt nothing--not the bottomless well of the Darkness and not the warm golden stream of Light--and looked up into Cruella’s grinning face.

“Ooops,” she said, her perfectly plucked eyebrows raised in mock consternation, “having a bit of trouble harnessing your power, Savior? Finding the Underworld not all it’s cracked up to be, are we?”

Emma couldn’t breathe for a moment, poised for fight or flight, but there was, again, nothing.

No fight.

Just the useless, empty core where the magic used to be inside of her.

“Yeah, it’s a  _ nuisance _ ,” said the Blind Witch. “The way Light magic will get you nowhere down here.” She cackled again and Emma was already tired of the sound. “Should have brought someone a little more, well--”

“Evil.” Cruella smacked her lips. “Oh, what the Queen could have accomplished in your stead.”

_ Regina _ . Reflexively Emma clenched her hands into fists, that anger she remembered from the world Above still perilously close to the surface, and then it hit her.

Regina, her parents, her kid--she was never going to see them again.

It hit her, a fucking  _ freight train _ of emotion, of regret.

Because she was alone. Again.

There was the metal pressed against her back but she was more alone than she had ever been in her  _ life _ and--

Except she wasn’t. Alive. She’d given that up, done the right thing, even if she couldn’t seem to figure out why she was here, and--

“Laugh all you want, Doolittle.” Cruella’s mouth turned down as if she was tasting something extremely unpleasant and Emma smiled. “Do your worst.” She’d been run through the heart by the sword she should have left alone. What could they do to her?

Cruella’s eyes narrowed down to slits as she leaned forward, uncomfortably close. “I sense confusion,” she hissed. “Like you don’t think you belong here. When you put me here. That should be enough reason.”

“Oh, that should be reason for worse, kitten.” Emma had not noticed the witch come up behind her and she flinched at her closeness, at the timbre of the words in her ear, but there was no heat, no feeling of breath against her neck. The witch, when she wasn’t speaking or moving, stood completely--almost unnaturally--still.

“Oooooh,” she whispered. “I sense  _ misapprehension _ .” The witch circled to face Emma. “ _ Do your worst,  _ you said. Didn’t she, kitten?”

Cruella gave her a distracted nod, still staring down Emma, when the witch smiled. “But I hear a  _ heartbeat _ ,” she said, and she trembled like this fact pleasured her from the inside out and smiled her deranged smile. “Yes, lovelies,” she said, ignoring the way Emma’s and Cruella’s eyes both snapped to hers as she addressed the entire diner, “there is a heartbeat in the Underworld.”

And Emma, disbelieving, pressed her hand to her chest.

_ ThumpThump _ _  
_ _ ThumpThump _ _  
_ _ ThumpThump _

There it was.

\--

Emma couldn’t tell if it was hours or days later.

It could have been years, for all she knew, years spent running from the diner has if the hounds of hell had been after her--and there was a story about that, too, a story that  _ he _ had told her--and it wasn’t impossible, not in the Underworld, and it was freaking  _ Cruella _ \--so she’d taken refuge in the only place she knew, the only place where she could be with him.

She’d run across the manicured grass and the broken tombstones, run until she’d found the one she was looking for and curled up at its base, and now she was on the grass, horizontal, the hook in her left hand and her right on her neck, index finger pressed into the pulse points, counting the beats as she stared at the sky.

She counted them and then counted again, over and over and over. 

She was out of tears.

There was only silence and the beating of her own heart.

The clouds overhead didn’t even move here. Nothing did, that’s why the witch had felt so still, that’s why everything was so quiet--everything except her, with her heartbeat and her pulse and her warmth and her  _ breath _ .

The blood-red twilight made telling time impossible.

Maybe time didn’t pass down here.

Maybe there was no time.

Emma turned her head and stared at the letters carved into the stone.  _ Killian Jones _ .

She had no idea how long it had been since she’d seen him, since she’d touched him, since she’d kissed him and felt the press of him against her and the warmth that was  _ him _ and the way that he loved her, unconditionally.

She shifted her right hand to the chain around her neck.

To the ring.

She remembered the feeling of him against her and the comfort of his presence, as it said without words everything that mattered.  _ I am here. With you. _

_ Always. _

She was  _ enough _ for him, and she had taken it for granted; the only thing he had ever asked of her was to let him go and instead she had bound them more tightly together.

“ _ We’ve already had more time together than we ever should have _ ,” he’d said.

This wasn’t right.

“You have to do what is right,” Merlin had said, only she had a heartbeat and something was terribly,  _ terribly _ wrong.

A shadow stood over her and said, “Look at what we have here. A lost savior.”

There was a man standing above her, tall with close-cropped brown hair and a grim expression.

“Word travels fast down here,” he said. “And you can’t always believe what you hear, but then again, here you are.”

His voice was unmistakably angry.

“So tell me, Emma Swan. What is it you think you’re after? What more can you possibly want to do to him?”

Emma jumped to her feet, ignoring the protesting muscles of her back, clutching the hook like a talisman.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “How do you know who I am?”

“The witches at the diner, for one,” he said with a sneer. “Cruella has--quite a  _ bone  _ to pick with you, to coin a phrase. It seems she knew you, topside. In any case, she had a lot to say on the subject of one Emma Swan.” Liam looked at her for a beat and then his eyes flashed briefly. It could have been anger. It could have been sorrow. “And then there is the small matter of my brother.”

Everything inside Emma contracted into a pinpoint of pain at the center of her heart.

Her  _ beating _ heart.

“Who is your brother?” she whispered, her fingers pulling at the chain she wore because she  _ knew _ .

“Oh,” said the man. He spoke like he was indulging the whims of a small, spoiled child; his eyes followed the hand along her neck and locked on the ring. “Have you not yet guessed who I am? My name is Liam. Liam Jones.”

\--

  
  


The hook in her had suddenly felt infinitely heavier as she looked up at Liam with his burning eyes, his mouth in a thin line, and said, “Is he here? Killian?  _ Is he here?” _

She was tired of this place and its goddamn riddles.

She needed a fucking  _ answer _ .

Liam seemed determined not to give her one but his eyes narrowed a fraction and his tells were easier than his brother’s.

“Why is he here?” She couldn’t get her voice to work above a rasping whisper, but there was no ambient sound here, no birdsong or insect chirp; she should have noticed the silence before.

The stillness.

Liam shook his head. “You’re asking all of the wrong questions,  _ Savior _ .” The way he said it made it sound like a curse. He put his hand briefly on the tombstone and nodded to himself. When he spoke, he did not look at her. “You have never been the hero of this story. Not for yourself, not for your family. And for my brother?”

He turned and fixed her with a withering glare.

“You’re nothing but a villain. And villains don’t get happy endings, do they?”

Emma closed her eyes, blinking back tears, and--

_ She saw him _ .

He looked at her, one eye swollen shut, blood dripping from fresh wounds. He his hand was tethered to the wall and she could taste iron in the air and despair on her tongue and for a second she was certain that he could see her, too; his lips moved, mouthing her name, cutting across time and space and life and death as  _ Emma _ resonated deep within her chest.

The vision flickered out and Emma screamed.

She felt it echo, hanging in the air before it dissipated, absorbed into the stillness, and the air around her felt even quieter than it had before.

Liam stared at her, unimpressed. “Go home, Savior. Go home and let him go and move on. You are not welcome here.”

He pushed past her and before she could turn to follow him he was gone, vanished between the rows of stone monuments to lost souls. She was alone again.

She lifted the hook--her one small measure of connection--and held it against her cheek, imagined  _ him _ and the way he used to pull her hair back with it. 

_ I am here with you _ .

“I will find you,” she whispered into the steel. “I will find you and I will make this right.”

A stray streak of the blood-red twilight caught the curve of the hook and reflected a rainbow.

\--

[[SB]]

Time has no meaning here.

It runs through his scarred fingers, racing along, endlessly stretching; it leaves nothing to hold on to but madness and anger. There is nothing to do in this grey without time, without purpose--it is a space without meaning, a pocket of empty.

It may have been centuries ago that he was trapped here.

It may have been hours.

There is no way to know.

\--

[[UW]]

It was a small cottage, crooked and bowed, with peeling paint and a sagging wood frame that groaned under her weight when Emma walked up and pounded on the door hard enough to wake the dead.

Literally.

When Liam came to the door and opened it Emma said nothing. She just punched him squarely in the chin and watched him fold in half before she sidestepped him and entered the cottage’s single room with its makeshift kitchen that had never been used and its sofa that looked well-worn and mostly comfortable. Emma sat down at the table and waited for Liam to catch his breath.

“I suppose it’s too much to hope for coffee in this purgatory?”

He shook his head and wheezed as he sat down across from her, glaring.

“It’s interesting, don’t you think? How pain is still a thing--even though you’re all as dead as I should be.” She leaned forward. “I have no magic here, but I used to be very good at getting information out of people. And the tools of my trade  _ do _ work down here.”

She left off the part about how it had felt wrong, the show of force, how it had felt too much like being the Dark One without actually  _ being  _ the Dark One. She left out how desperate it made her feel, and how twisted everything was. 

She left out the part about how Liam was probably her best bet for finding Killian, even if she wasn’t above asking Cruella a  _ pertinent _ question or two.

Or four.

She leaned back into the chair, affecting comfort and confidence she did not feel after their meeting in the cemetery--after the vision that still lingered--and waited for his breathing to even out. He straightened up, his own show of confidence that she ignored. “I am done with the riddles. Everyone here talks like a fucking oracle and I am not playing this game. Give me a few straight answers or I will make you very uncomfortable.”

And in that moment Emma felt the pressure of Merlin’s weight underneath her, his wrist in her hand, twisted--his face contorted in pain. She remembered the way that it felt to have him in her power, “ _ Trust me when I say that I take no pleasure in this _ .”

Emma shivered.

“Think you can get the drop on me twice?” His condescending sneer rode his anger like the surf of a hurricane.

“I know I can,” Emma snapped--and that, at least, was true. “I also know that something went horribly wrong, and that Killian should not be here. If this is all some horrible mistake, I have to  _ fix it _ . No matter what.”

Her voice rang out into the silence while Liam looked at her. Just--stared, for a long time while her own words and her own hypocrisy echoed inside of her head.

“I can see why he likes you,” he said. “Gods know I despise what you have done to him, but I can see why he likes you. He’s always had a soft spot for strays, especially the ones who can give as good as they get.”

Emma stared back.

She was  _ not _ a stray. 

She was  _ not _ nothing. 

She was someone’s daughter, someone’s mother, someone’s friend, and the woman who loved his brother. 

_ Home, warmth, family _ .

“He thinks you hung the moon,” she said, “but don’t kid yourself--you’re not the hero of this story, either. Be as angry at me as you want to be, but you bent him to your will so tightly that not even your death cut him free.”

Liam opened his mouth to reply but she held up her hand. “Save it,” she said. “Neither of us is going to win this fight. And I have more important things to do.”

Liam sank back into his chair, deflated, his shoulders hunched and his eyes hooded.

“Isn’t that what gets you into trouble, Savior?” he finally said. “Fixing things no matter what?”

His tells were easier than his brother’s but it seemed that both of the brothers Jones had a knack for reading people.

“I did the right thing,” Emma said. Her hand went automatically to her neck and the chain there as he watched her.

“Did you now?” Liam’s voice was quiet, and that, finally, broke her.

“YES!” Emma slammed her hand into the table, hard, but Liam didn’t flinch. “I fucked it all up before that, I took the sword and chose the Darkness, but the sacrifice, that I did right!” With her other hand, she pulled the hook from her waistband and held it up. “Why is he here? I saw him, he is being  _ fucking  _ tortured by the fucking God of Death and I need to know why.”

Emma watched Liam as he watched her, unmoving.

And then he slowly got up.

“I don’t have the answers you’re looking for, Savior,” he said. “But I do know this: He’s here. And he’s in a place I cannot go.” He sighed, and it sounded resigned, and no longer angry. “So if I were you, Savior, I would start looking in places the dead cannot enter.”

Emma’s voice was a whisper. “And where is that?”

“Ask the witch at the diner. She refused to tell me, but I get the feeling you can be--persuasive.”

He almost smiled.

Emma stood, tucked the hook back into her waistband, and walked out the door.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. Arrive Where We've Started

[[UW]]

“I want neither gingerbread nor children,” Emma said, glaring at the Blind Witch before she could even speak a word and watching with satisfaction as her mouth snapped shut and straightened into a disapproving line. Emma slid onto one of the counter bar stools and let the weight of the hook digging into her back give her strength of purpose.

“What I want,” Emma said, “is coffee.” She smiled her most determined smile, because she wasn’t exactly sure how blind the Blind Witch was, and figured it couldn’t hurt. “Black coffee. Please. And--information.”

The Blind Witch sneered. “Coffee you can have for free,” she rasped. “Information will cost you.”

Emma sighed, only just stopping herself from slumping over the counter by thinking of the hook, and her purpose, but still fucking  _ frustrated _ . Why did everything always have to come with a price?

God, she was just--

She was  _ tired _ . Emma hadn’t slept as the Dark One and she knew how it should feel, the absence of exhaustion, the freedom from the need for suspended consciousness, but she was so.

Tired.

And it shouldn’t have been possible in a place like this where time didn’t exist--where no one needed sleep, where immortality spanned into an endless horizon--it should feel the same.

Why didn’t it?

“Cost me what?” Emma said. “There’s no money down here. I have no magic. What could I have that you want?”

Her hand drifted down her side and gripped the hook, the tangible reminder that she was here for a reason -- a reason bigger than a recalcitrant witch who liked to snack on children and the cryptic and superior asshole brother -- and bigger than Emma. She wasn’t going to fail; she was not going to be bested by half of this apparent Underworld power couple. As the determination surged through her there was, for a brief, flickering moment, the feeling of Merlin’s ragged breathing below her spiked heel and Emma ground her teeth.

How could she choose between what was right and what was good when they were the same thing?

The Blind Witch cackled. “Oh, Savior,” she said, her sneer not diminished in the least, “you don’t think a heartbeat down here has value? Because the energy you bring--” she gasped, a sound of pleasure and pain--”could spark all kinds of power.”

She leaned forward and fixed Emma’s gaze in her milky eyes. It was unpleasant and unsettling but Emma forbade herself to blink and matched the witch’s stare as she dropped her voice and whispered, “I want to siphon every last bit of your living breath before I tell you anything.  _ Savior _ .”

Her throat was so close, her body stretched across the counter; all Emma had to do was punch up with the hard, straightened outside of her right hand to hit the Blind Witch exactly in the hollow of her trachea. When she gasped this time, it was  _ only _ in pain as Emma watched her eyes roll up and her body slide from the counter to the floor.

It felt both good  _ and _ right.

Emma stood, meeting the eyes of each staring patron until they scurried out. She locked the door behind them before she turned back to the woman on the floor and knelt, pulling the hook from her waistband to hold it up.

He needed her. He needed her to succeed.

“It seems you are under a misapprehension,” Emma said, gripping the metal. “I wasn’t asking for a trade. I was asking for information, and you are going to tell me everything you know.”

Echoes of Merlin’s apartment, snippets of words and sounds and actions and the regrets she hadn’t felt then, overcame her but all she could see was Killian bleeding; the pain was so sharp she could taste it, the metallic tang hanging in the air and crowding her nostrils.

_ No _ .

She pushed it away, all of it, and focused on her task, on the good reasons  _ and _ the right ones.

She could do this.

Persuasive indeed.

\--

[[SB]]

He doesn’t see her when he looks at her. Doesn’t respond when she makes contact, doesn’t hold her hand when she takes it, or squeeze her fingers back. Doesn’t react when she says his name.

He eats when she puts food in front of him and falls asleep next to her when she turns the lights out and he sits in the armchair in the living room when left alone, still as a statue, for hours.

Sometimes he gets up and it makes hope well up inside her every time, gets up and walks out the door and through the town, and each time she follows at a distance, hopeful, so hopeful, for him to see something and know it, for a spark of recognition, for something, anything---

But nothing ever happens, and there is no spark.

\--

[[UW]]

It was at the moment Emma started to yank the witch up by the front of her dress that she heard the shout--”Attack!”--behind her, followed immediately by the weight of a large black dog with three heads.

One of the heads was at her throat as the front paws pinned her to the floor.

The other two were licking her face until the third cocked its head expectantly, like it was waiting for a treat. Between the lapping tongues Emma could see its large tail wagging furiously and all of this while the shrill voice kept screaming, “Attack! Attack!” and--

Emma burst out laughing.

What even was her life?

Afterlife. Whatever.

It was too surreal.

There was nothing to do but scratch each head in turn thoroughly behind the ears until the beast let her sit up, two last licks from the first head for good measure. Cruella, fuming, watched her as she wiped her face.

“Guess your power is a little off-kilter down here, too.” Emma’s smile, for the first time, was real.

“Oh, the beasts  _ listen _ to me,” Cruella grumbled. “They just don’t do what I say.”

“It must be very disappointing,” Emma said, getting up, “to have Cerberus at your command and then accidentally turn him into a lap dog.”

Cruella rolled her eyes and helped the Blind Witch to her feet, while Emma pulled three sugar cubes out of a bowl on the counter and threw them at the dog’s heads. Three identical sets of fangs caught the lumps and then the dog sat down before Emma, his heads even with her waist, his wagging tail tumping the floor in time with her heartbeat.

_ ThumpThump _

Emma’s smile faded even as she kept scratching the abundance of dog ears. “Look,” she said. “I was really good at my job even before I was a Dark One, so here’s how this is going to go: you refuse to tell me what I need to know, and I will make you tell me anyway, only it will take a lot longer and be very, very painful. For  _ you _ .” She put the hook back into her waistband with an extra ear scratch for the head that followed the movement of her hand and bumped against her palm. “I get the resentment. I get that you have a score to settle and dream about your revenge and my demise, yadda yadda, but here’s the thing. I don’t have time for it. How about instead we skip straight to the end? You talk to me, I’ll leave, and neither of you will ever hear from me again.”

She straightened up, ignoring a trio of dog cheeps, and entered Cruella’s personal space.

From out of the corner of her eye she could see the Blind Witch step forward and simply reached out, grabbed her wrist, and twisted her arm hard behind her back. The witch whimpered in real pain and Cruella’s eyes flicked back and forth between them.

“I don’t have time for anything other than finding Killian,” Emma said, pulling the clutched wrist up and eliciting a choked gasp and she was not thinking of Merlin on a New York City floor, she was  _ not _ .

“He’s here and he shouldn’t be and I have to  _ fucking fix this _ , so if you want to spend the rest of your happily-ever-afterlife down here in one piece, you tell me.  _ Now _ .”

\--

Liam was waiting for her, casually leaning against the hood of a large, rusted out car and he just--

God, he looked so much like Killian, his arms crossed, his legs crossed, looking down his nose and up at her through his eyelashes.

“Looks like I wasn’t wrong,” he said, and Emma exhaled. “You are persuasive. What did the witch tell you?”

His voice was nothing like Killian’s, pure condescension and contempt as he took credit for her success. Any other day Emma would have stopped to tell him exactly what she thought of that, but she had wasted enough time already.

Which was stupid, really, in a place devoid of time.

Liam straightened and said, “You’re not going without me.”

“The hell I’m not,” Emma said, and Liam raised his eyebrows--both of them--making her sigh. “I don’t think you can go with me. Physically, I mean, or--whatever. I don’t think it’s possible.”

“I don’t believe you,” Liam said, his eyebrows still up.

Emma growled.

“Yeah, no. You’ve been here--what, a couple of hundred years, right? So why don’t you tell me what happens when someone dead tries to cross the river of souls?”

What little color there was drained from his cheeks.

“What did the witch tell you?”

“That I have to weigh my heart and pass the test,” Emma said.

Liam scoffed. “Like you even have a heart to weigh.”

“You’re a bastard,” Emma said. “Just--you think the whole world owes you, don’t you? The great Liam Jones. The noble Liam Jones.  _ Captain _ Liam Jones. You probably don’t even think you deserve to be here.” Emma grasped onto the anger with everything she had, funneling it into the bottomlessness of her exhaustion until she straightened her posture and squared her shoulders because  _ fuck this guy _ .

“I have a heart,” she snapped. “It’s been broken in more ways than you can possibly imagine, stomped on and cracked and corrupted by Darkness and blinded by Light, but it’s still there, so. Yes,  _ Liam _ .” She spat his name. “I have a heart. And it belongs to your brother.”

She shook her head. Tears suddenly threatened, of rage and regret, and she fought them down. 

“It belongs to my son.” Her voice was unsteady in sadness and fury. “It belongs to my son and my parents and the people I have come to love, but first and foremost and always it belongs to Killian. And he’s down here when he shouldn’t be, when he should be up Above, safe and sound because one goddamn sacrifice is enough. It’s  _ enough _ !”

She was yelling.

She didn’t care.

“So I will go cross all the rivers there are and pass all the tests, because I have to find him and fix this, and you--” she raised her chin at him “--you cannot stop me.”

There was silence for a long moment and then Liam shook his head. 

“That’s not what I said.”

Emma sighed. God, she was  _ tired _ . So. Fucking. Tired.

“I’m not going to stop you. I’m coming with you.” He shrugged. “You can’t make me stay behind.”

“I could and you know it,” Emma said, “but I’m too tired to bother.”

She turned to walk down the main road toward the library and heard him lumber along behind her.

“You can follow me,” she said. “Just don’t talk.”

\--

“So. What else did the witch tell you?”

“I love how you’re abiding by my no-talking rule.”

Emma looked at the boarded-up library door and then turned to Liam.

“Since you’re here, though, how about you finally do something useful--” she gestured “--and find something to pry off these two-by-fours?”

Liam opened his jacket and pulled out a tire iron and Emma couldn’t help it--she laughed out loud. “Seriously? You just happen to have that on you?”

“Got it from Cruella’s car outside the diner, if you must know,” he said, scowling. “I have had occasion to learn about the inner workings of automobiles and other machinery here.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “And it makes a handy little lethal weapon. For those of us who are still technically alive.”

Liam shrugged. “It was a last resort. But before we pry this door open, tell me. What’s behind it?”

“Well,” Emma said, deadpan, “in the Storybrooke Above, it’s an elevator. So I’m gonna  _ guess _ \--yep, an elevator.” She shrugged. “Apparently just because this is the underworld, it doesn’t mean that there isn’t more underworld even further below. Under-underworld, if you will.”

Liam paused in the middle of removing the first board and whispered, “The broken headstones” like that was supposed to mean something.

“What?”

_ Crack _ . He didn’t answer, just levered another plank. 

“Listen, some of us haven’t been here for centuries, so can you please, just once, answer a question?”

He stopped and turned and looked at her and there was the tiniest hint of an upward angle at the corner of his mouth. “You said please,” he said.

“I don’t do it very often, so treasure it,” she said. “But yeah.”

The smile he gave her was small and reluctant. “That’s the kind of thing Killian would say,” he said, turning back to the boards, levering planks until the doors were free and they could go inside. The foyer was dusty, the stillness of the place even more oppressive inside than outside as dustmotes danced in wayward beams of reddish light.

Even her breathing sounded too loud, each breath swallowed by silence as soon as it was exhaled.

“What broken headstones?” It was a whisper, and Liam turned to face her.

“At the cemetery, there are three kinds of headstones,” he said. “The ones standing. For those of us who are here. Then there are ones which have been tipped over.”

There was another small, reluctant smile and he said, “Those are the souls that have moved on.”

“Moved on?”

“To a better place.”

“And the third kind?”

“Broken,” he said. “Cracked. Those souls have also moved on.” He shuddered. “To a worse place.”

The fear that crawled up Emma’s spine was relentless and icy and she would swear the hook at her back felt suddenly cold.

She had to find Killian.

She had to find him  _ now _ .

“Look around,” she said. “The elevator might be hidden, but it’s here. And we will find it.”

\--

It felt like hours, though it could have been minutes or days or  _ centuries _ for all she knew, since they had found the elevator. It hadn’t been too difficult; it was hidden behind a panel almost identical to the one in Storybrooke Above, and, like its counterpart, led to a maze of stone corridors and canyons.

No dragons. Yet.

_ Yet _ .

No trickster gods.

But also--no Killian.

No Killian and no clues as to where that freaking river of freaking lost souls might be and finally Emma had stopped, sat down to take a breather, and Liam had sunk down next to her and said nothing.

Until now.

“Sometimes I use the phone booth,” Liam said, and nothing else, waiting for her to respond. His voice was neither condescending nor contemptuous; it was quiet, almost like the way that Killian’s voice got quiet when he was dropping his facade and just  _ talking _ . She was almost starting to get used to it--the ways the brothers were alike, but also completely different.

“The phone booth?”

Liam shrugged.

“Supposedly you can talk to your loved ones topside with it.”

“There’s a way you can talk to the people Above? Seriously?”

Emma thought of Henry. Thought of hearing his voice. Thought of all the things she wanted to tell him, before Liam’s words brought her back with a snap.

“Supposedly,” he said. It sounded--dejected. His shoulders slumped. “We don’t know if our messages get through. I guess I always hoped they did.”

“Did you try to talk to Killian?”

Liam nodded. 

“What did you say?”

“I told him to not worry about me. And to stay the course. Straight and narrow and true to his orders.”

And Emma put her head back and laughed out loud.

Down here, it was not a pleasant sound and it echoed in the cavernous space and bounced around the corridors but she didn’t care, she just  _ laughed _ .

“What?” Liam smiled but it faded quickly as he realized she was laughing  _ at him _ \--kept asking, his voice getting louder and louder as she kept ignoring him because it was just too ridiculous, the way that Liam Jones thought he could tell his brother to heel like a good dog from  _ beyond the grave _ .

God, if she could talk to Killian right now, she wouldn’t say anything that stupid, seriously--

That stopped her laughing. “You’re a piece of fucking work, Liam Jones,” she said, wiping her eyes. 

“You’re one to talk, Savior. Cruella’s told me all about  _ you _ .”

If Liam’s anger was like a freight train, barreling relentlessly down its track, Emma’s was a goddamn neutron  _ bomb _ . 

“Save it,” she hissed. “I don’t want to hear it. You think I’m not good enough for your brother. I’m sure you have dozens of reasons and I’m sure they’re all solid. I don’t care about any of them.”

She got up.

“It’s not up to you. It’s his life, and my life, and the one thing they have in common is that they are not your life. You can rot here forever for all I care, but the man I love is here, here when he shouldn’t be, and I will find him.  _ I will always find him _ . And if I were you--” she bent down, fixing Liam with an icy stare “--I would ask myself why you spent eternity reminding your brother to stick to the straight and narrow when you obviously couldn’t.”

Liam bristled and drew breath to respond and Emma cut him off.

“I am beyond over your self-righteous act,” she said and watched his mouth hang open. “Why else would you be here? If you had been the goddamn paragon of virtue Killian makes you out to be, why didn’t you end up in a better place?”

His expression was unreadable, not that Emma cared to try.

“Well, I’m going now,” she said. “You can go wherever you want to, but if you follow me--” she pulled out the hook and held it up “--I will bury this in a very unpleasant place. On your body. Do I make myself clear?”

Shell-shocked.

That was the expression on Liam’s face. He was shell-shocked.

But he nodded.

“Good,” Emma said, and started walking.

\--

[[SB]]

Darkness and fury and rage begin to howl.

They tear at him, with might, with power , nearly rip him from her grasp, and scream

and scream

until his ears bleed, until his mind folds, until his eyes lose all sight

until he can no longer think

or feel

or be -- or be

until he is ripped apart at the seams of his very existence, and all that is left

all that is left

everything he is 

is that corner of his heart

where she lives.

\--

[[UW]]

“Wait!”

Liam’s voice was--anxious. And--distraught?

“Wait, Emma. Wait!”

He’d said her name. Emma stopped.

She could hear him scramble to get up behind her and turned around, brandishing the hook. Liam held up both hands in supplication and it made her irrationally angry that Killian only had the one. “Which part of don’t follow me--”

“I get it now.” It was Liam’s turn to cut  _ her _ off. “I get why he likes you.”

“He doesn’t--” Emma’s voice broke. “He doesn’t  _ like _ me _.  _ He--”

Something came over her as Emma’s entire body heaved.

Because she felt it. 

She felt it, truly, for the first time since she’d turned--maybe for the first time, period--the certainty. The steadiness, the  _ reality _ that was Killian’s love for her. The totality of it, the way he had literally loved her with  _ everything he had _ .

Because that’s who he was, and that was how he loved--completely.

And it was--oh, god, it was just  _ too much _ , and she almost craved the emptiness again except for the way that she knew, now, in this dark, damp, foul-smelling rough-hewn tunnel of stone, that Killian Jones had loved her.

The look in his eyes before she’d--with the sword--the way he’d looked at her, soft and sad and knowing, and his eyes  _ still _ said “I love you.”

Even the Darkness hadn’t been able to take that away.

Liam took a step toward her and Emma stiffened, making sure her voice was completely steady and utterly calm when she said, “He doesn’t like me. He loves me. He loves me more than I deserve.”

“And you?” Liam’s voice was low.

“More than I can stand, sometimes,” she whispered. “With everything I have, little as it is.”

Which was when Liam did the strangest thing: he chuckled. It was sad, and quiet, but everything about him relaxed when he said, “You’re so much like him.”

It sounded like he was talking to himself, but then he looked at her. “I didn’t see it before. I was too angry, perhaps. But you fight so hard not to be hurt, just like him, and you lose your way and try to close yourself off, but it never works, does it.”

Emma lowered the hook, let it sink down; wrapped it in both of her hands and said nothing.

“Never worked for him, either. He felt  _ everything _ . You’ve encountered loss like he has, hardship like he has, grief and despair and damage like he has, and you have lost your way, but never lost yourself. Even in your darkest hours, you will both fight to be found.” 

He smiled at her wistfully.

“And you’re like me, too,” he said, and held up a hand to stop Emma’s protest. “You are. Stubborn and tenacious and intractable. You think yourself above the rules and bend them to your will and you will punch back at everything that stands in the way of how you think things should be.”

Emma could feel herself deflate as all of the anger dissipated, leaving only exhaustion behind.

“Don’t you,” Liam said, and Emma slumped.

He was right.

She looked up and said nothing--but he heard her, just like his brother always did, heard all the things she couldn’t say, and nodded.

“And that is why I’m coming with you.” Liam pointed to the hook she was still clutching in both hands. “Put that away. I will help you find him. And whatever went wrong, I will help you make it right.” He sighed. “By all the stars in the sky, I owe him.”

Emma couldn’t think anymore and couldn’t fight anymore and realized that down here allies were few and hard won and sparse, and if Liam was willing to help her, she was going to let him.

“Okay,” she said.

He looked surprised. “You won’t bury that--” he gestured at the hook with his chin “--in an unpleasant place when I’m not looking?”

“I didn’t say that,” she said, and smiled. “It depends on how annoying you are.”

“Alas,” he sighed dramatically. “That does not bode well for me. I have it on excellent authority that I am exceedingly annoying.”

Emma giggled, but Liam burst out laughing and it was so similar to Killian’s laugh that it caused her actual pain, her breath leaving her, her body starting to convulse again until--

Liam was  _ joking _ with her. He had a sense of humor.

That’s when she heard it, bubbling beneath the fading wheeze of Liam’s laughter.

“Shhh,” she said, holding a finger to her lips. “Do you hear that?”

Liam stilled instantly and Emma looked up.

“Does that sound like running water to you?”

Liam nodded slowly.

“Like a river?” She whispered. “Could it be a river?”

He nodded again. “I believe it could.”

\--

[[SB]]

  
  


When she wakes up and he is gone, she feels like crying.

When she wakes up and he is there, tossing and turning and looking at her with his sadness and frustration and hurt, she feels like screaming. The anger is there--the anger that was always a part of her, that had followed her for twenty-eight years and had finally started to dissipate--and it flares up and manifests in the magic running through her hands as she tries to calm him.

Tries to calm both of them.

“I’ve never known you to need to get ready for a fight,” he said. “I thought it was a natural state,” and maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t but it certainly is  _ now _ and she can’t say anything, can’t do anything, because she’s done this.

\--

She was running so fast--and was so focused--that only Liam’s lightning-quick reflexes saved Emma from falling when the tunnel opened onto a small outcropping above a very long drop. She was breathing hard, almost doubled over in pain, while Liam bent forward to see the raging, swirling river below.

Emma was looking up.

_ Up _ , where the other side of the river was--and it was far, far away. There was, in the middle of the river, with no path to it or from it, a platform of rough metal with a hole straight through its middle. Above the hole, above the seemingly endless drop into the river of lost souls, of pain and torment, was a large hook; a hook looped with chains, and on the chains hung--

Emma had to swallow down bile as she looked up and saw  _ him _ , beaten, bruised, unconscious; his head down, his chin resting on his chest, his body unmoving but for the sway of the hook as it swung him gently back and forth.

And then it dropped with a sound like a ratchet and Emma screamed.

She screamed and it echoed all the way to the river below and to the opposite side of the river and back again--even Liam jumped at the sound.

But Killian remained still.

Liam’s hand came down on her arm and she shook him off, violently, as she rounded on him.

“How do I get across?” she demanded. “How do I get to him?”

And Liam whispered with tears in his eyes, “I don’t know.”

Emma screamed again, screamed his name in impotent frustration. “Killian! KILLIAN! I’M HERE!”

But he didn’t react; he just swayed on the hook above the hole, to and fro until it dropped again, another foot closer to the river below.

Emma’s head swung frantically as she looked for something,  _ anything _ , she could make a jump from, but there was only the tiny ledge and the floating platform and the river of death below and then--

A blink, a streak, a glitter of bronze or gold or copper--it was shiny and incongruous in the darkness. Emma followed the streak until she saw a tiny alcove and in it--

In it there were scales and carved into the rock above them there were words, words in a language she didn’t know, written in an alphabet she couldn’t read, but before she could even process this next hurdle Liam’s voice rang out behind her.

“Only a heart filled with True Love can pass.”

She turned, slowly. He was smiling in his old condescending manner, but it was warmer than it had been because of the small quirk at the corner of his mouth and the light of understanding in his eyes when he said, “I did study at the Royal Naval Academy, you know.”

Emma rolled her eyes but then the hook dropped again and she lost all sense of levity.

And with a flash of insight, Emma had the answer. “I have to--” she gulped “--weigh my heart.” It was the only thing that made sense. “I need to prove that my love for him is True.”

Liam just looked at her. “What can I do?”

“Nothing,” she said. “This is the place the dead cannot enter, because I can do this and you can’t--” And with a groan and a cry and a grinding of teeth she plunged her hand into her own chest and ripped her heart from her body and it was--it was--

_ Fuck _ . 

It was bright red and glowing a friendly, reassuring glow; it was bright red and not streaked or darkened by the things she had done and the evil she had embraced and the fate she had bound herself and Killian to in her pride and her fear and her desperation. Liam made a noise but Emma couldn’t look away from this piece of herself, alive and beating and vibrant. She looked over at Killian and she remembered the kiss, the True Love’s Kiss that wasn’t back in Camelot and she understood, finally, why it hadn’t worked. Because she hadn’t let it.

Because she made the wrong choice.

But this--she could do this, she  _ had _ to do this.

It wasn’t even a choice.

It was just--it was  _ right _ .

It was  _ good  _ and it was  _ right _ and she didn’t hesitate as she leaned forward and put her heart on one of the scales.

Everything was silent save the foaming waters below and the sharp crank as the hook dropped again but she kept her eyes on the scales and focused everything she had and everything she was on one thing, one feeling as she  _ believed _ .

In True Love.

In Killian Jones.

In  _ herself _ . In  _ them _ .

Her heart beat.

Once.

It stilled and there was a deafening  _ crack _ as something shot out from behind her--small and narrow like a girder and it extended toward the platform. Emma stepped onto the thin, wavering beam, and behind her, her heart beat again, and the beam elongated, precarious and slippery, but there. One foot in front of the other, like walking a tightrope; her heart beat again, brought the beam even closer--

And then it stopped.

Emma stood, willing herself not to breathe or to move or to look down but just to keep steady, and she waited, but nothing came.

Until.

The entire structure began to shake and the girder buckled and vibrated as the hook lowered another foot with a shriek of protest and  _ his feet were almost through the hole _ , she could see the blood on his face and his closed eyes and his hookless hand and again, again, there was no choice.

Just a decision.

On the balls of her feet Emma spun, taking three dangerous, wobbling steps back toward Liam and the ledge. She ignored Liam’s shouting, ignored everything,  _ everything _ \--every sound and scent and feeling as she took two, three, four running steps and pushed off the the end of the beam and screamed, a battle cry this time as she jumped

_ jumped _

\--

[[SB]]

She leans forward to kiss him.

Her lips are soft and warm and so very familiar.

“I love you,” he says. Feels the truth of it, feels it .

She wraps herself around him again, uses her whole body.

And leans her forehead against his. “I know.”

\--

[[UW]]

He wasn’t breathing.

He wasn’t breathing but when she hurled herself at him, crying, screaming, wrapping her arms around him as she pulled him down from the hook and whispered, brokenly, “Killian, come back to me,” he twitched and one eye opened.

“Emma,” he croaked. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Her hand splayed across his chest.

“No one should.”

There was no heat coming from his body.

There was no heartbeat under her fingertips.

“I told you to let me go,” he said.


	8. A Handful of Dust

**[[SB]]**

Sometimes the days feel like years.

They blur into each other seamlessly, the Darkness and the Underworld, Above and Below, Before and--

After.

She’s cold, too, and raw. The light feels bright, the feelings are overwhelming; she pulls the blankets around herself and wears her heavy coat and the only thing that keeps her warm is the nearness of him, when she can keep him near.

And then one day, when he wakes up again shaking and not himself, she watches him as he trembles and takes his hand in hers; she watches him flinch away from the magic lighting her hands and her touch. She breathes and counts and inhales and exhales as though she is doing it for both of them, to remind him how

And she knows, she  _ knows _ \--

“Come with me,” she says.

He gets up, gets dressed, pulling on his jacket and his boots and closing the door behind him.

He follows her, even now.

(To the end of the world, or time.)

He follows her and they walk. Distance still feels as meaningless as time but it is by any measure a short walk, as walks go. 

The sky here is blue.

The lawns here are less well-kept. 

None of the stones are broken.

But here, as there, is a stone that bears the name  _ Killian Jones _ .

  
  


**[[UW]]**

His words hung in the air: “I told you to let me go.”

Emma looked at him. Just--looked. Memorized every bruise and gash and cut and wound until she felt herself tense, held tightly as a breath underwater. Looked until she felt her resolve solidify and said, “I never listen.”

He collapsed against her, his head on her shoulder, motionless, as she turned away from him to re-examine their surroundings. There was a walkway back to the shore, back to Liam--not a girder this time but a proper walkway--sturdy, umoving, looking like it had always been there.

Liam waved his hands, helpless. “I can’t cross it,” he shouted. The desperation bled out of his voice, cracking the edges of Emma’s determination. “Is he in one piece?”

Which was a stupid question.

But though he had no heartbeat and no breath and couldn’t open one of his eyes, he was-- _ he was _ \--in one piece, and that was something to hold on to.

This was not how the story ended. Not on this island of torture and despair.

Not this farce her sacrifice had become.

Not any of this.

Killian’s head rolled against her neck and the iron tang of his blood filled her lungs but she refused to panic.

She had found him.

She wasn’t alone.

They could do this.

“I’m sorry, Killian,” she whispered. “This is going to hurt.” 

And she pulled his arm across her shoulder and wrapped her own around his waist and levered them up, her right hand wrapped around his wrist like a vise, her left hand gripping his belt and loop and trouser waistband. She heaved them both up, her breath held as she lifted with her legs until they were both standing.

They were wobbly--but vertical--at least until Killian’s head lolled forward and nearly unbalanced them. Emma caught herself and yanked his arm  _ down _ and winced at his moan.

“I’m sorry,” Emma said.  _ Sorry _ . It was a stupid thing to say, almost as stupid as Liam’s question, but she  _ was _ sorry. For--so many things.

For everything.

Killian lifted his head and straightened up, slowly, marginally, supporting some of his own weight and Emma wanted to gasp at the relief of it but felt herself holding her breath as he looked at her with his blood-streaked face and his eyes nearly swollen shut. She felt the tears, let them fall unimpeded. But first--

“Can you walk?”

He didn’t quite manage a nod, but he did blink. Emma tightened her grip and steered them toward the walkway.

“It’s just across here,” she said. “We can do this.”

They could do this.

_ Together _ .

Liam caught her just before she fell into his arms and Emma managed to sink slowly to her knees, Killian’s head in her lap. She tried to catch her breath, spent, winded.

She did not let go of Killian’s hand.

Cold and unmoving as it was, she would not let go.

She and Liam looked at each other over Killian’s body.

“I need my heart back,” she whispered.

Liam stood and walked to the scales; he picked up her heart and cradled it in his hands, his eyes constantly flickering back to his brother. He handed it back to her and did not say a single word. Emma wouldn’t have heard him even if he had--all she could hear over the sound of her own panting was Killian’s voice on an endless loop.  _ I told you to let me go _ .

_ I told you to let me go. _

_ I told you to let me go. _

He lay there, battered, broken, bloody as she took her heart and slammed it back into her own chest--

\--and gasped, rasping, heaving in pain and anger and confusion and relief and love and despair as everything, everything, rushed back into her at full force and she felt like she might break.

_ I told you to let me go _ .

No. NO.

This was not how the story ended.

She sat there and let herself  _ feel  _ it until she could feel the well deep inside her and gritted her teeth until her jaw muscles spasmed, reaching,  _ reaching _ until it felt like her neck was going to snap, her teeth grind into dust and then--

_ and then _

A spark. 

A frisson of energy.

Not much, but enough.

Enough.

The light, cool and blue and white, sparked at her fingertips as she let her hands wander down his body, touching him, solid and real, feeling the feel of him as his bones reset and the skin knit itself back together and the bruises vanished and then finally,  _ finally _ , he opened his eyes.

“Emma,” he said, he said her name and nothing else and the way he said it was the way he used to say it. Before. Warm, the syllables rolling off his tongue like a secret only for the two of them to share. She blinked and the tears started rolling down her cheeks again; nothing had ever felt so good and hurt so much and she couldn’t--

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered. “Nobody should. I told you to let me go.”

Emma opened her mouth to answer.

She never got the chance as columns, great columns of light blue smoke, rose from the river, their fingers creeping onto the stone ledge until the smoke enveloped them with a  _ poof _ and dissipated, revealing a large room with a flagstone floor where Emma stood, Killian and Liam on either side of her, in front of Hades. He sat casually in an opulent armchair in his perfect suit with his perfect hair as he got a pedicure from a blonde young thing and looked at them condescendingly, every inch the disappointed schoolteacher.

“Really, Emma Swan,” he said, in a voice not even Mary Margaret at her prissiest could have managed. “I know you’re rash and impulsive--two traits I really sort of admire--and you always make the wrong choice--which, as you can see, has worked out in my favor. But this--” there was a wave of his hand and the girl at his feet disappeared. Emma hoped that she imagined the splashing sound she heard. “This is really taking things a bit far.” With another wave he was wearing socks and shoes, immaculately polished black shoes, which somehow made him much more menacing. He got up slowly, eyes focused on Emma. It was hypnotic.

“What were you thinking?”

  
  


**[[SB]]**

“You were lost,” she says. “Lost in the space between real and imagined, because of me. All magic comes with a price, and I had to pay it.”

She is silent. Silent and sad and hesitant.

“Do you understand me?” 

Slowly he shakes his head--but for the first time, he’s looking straight at her.

This is important.

He needs to pay attention.

  
  


**[[UW]]**

Hades took a step forward and Emma felt her heart beat hard, once, twice, and then Killian moved, stepped sideways, pushed her back and put his body between her and the angry god, breaking his stare as he raised his arm--

And was summarily flung against the wall, pinned six feet off the ground.

A second later Liam landed next to him.

Emma watched Killian as he tried in vain to move his jaw, could see him trying to speak, his muscles straining, his eyes wild, his jaw clenched, but no sound came out and there was no movement at all.

“That’s better,” Hades said nonchalantly. “This is between the two of us--”

“Let. Them.  _ Go. _ ” Each word was fire as she tried to reach down into the well of her power once more--just once more--tried to dredge up a flare, a flicker, an ember; but nothing came.

“I could do that,” Hades said. “I could put him--” he gestured at Killian, a lazy flick of the wrist “--right back where you found him and I can send him--” it was Liam this time “--down into the river of souls. Or,” Hades grinned, his easy-going and pleasant and persuasive grin that was still terrifying in its sincerity, “we can sort you out. I can enlighten you on some crucial facts.”

At this, his eyes lit up and his voice shifted to something gleeful, a child looking forward to a delicious treat.

Emma looked at Killian, pinned to the wall, mute, immobile. She looked at Liam, whose eyes met hers. A chair appeared out of thin air and she slowly lowered herself down onto the seat.

“I’ll sit,” Emma said. “And you won’t hurt them.”

Hades’ eyes widened with joy. “Well,” he said. He paced backward and circled his chair. “Well, well, well. So the stories are true, then. You’ve got fire.” As he said the word, his eyes flashed blue fire, fire that hovered around his head and his fingernails. “I  _ love _ fire.” He turned to face her again and slouched into his easy chair, one leg slung across the armrest as he considered her. “Unfortunately for you,  _ Savior _ , there’s still something I know and you don’t, about your little sacrifice with Dark Ones, blah blah blah--” he waved his hand, bored “--and your exile down here to  _ atone _ . To  _ make it right _ .”

He rolled his eyes and Emma felt it, something cold crawling down her spine, a finger of fear, of anger, of regret.

Of memory.

Of comprehension.

_ Emma braces her feet and keeps pushing against Killian’s hilt while she wraps their tethers around Excalibur, binds them, binds herself, binds him, and she sees Killian’s eyes _

Killian’s eyes

_ He falters. _

_ The Dark Ones are howling in her ears. _

_ Emma pulls back Excalibur and twists the hilt, spins the blade.  _

“But that’s not what happened,” Hades went on, and now his voice was cold. Menacing. Relentless. “Is it?”

There was a moaning sound, low and desperate; it was coming from her.

_ She holds the sword in both hands as it shakes, as it vibrates and pulls and the Darkness itself obeys. The names on it, the etched block letters, they are  _ screaming _. _

No.

No.

_ He reaches for her, his hook around her wrist, his hand over hers on the hilt of the blade bearing both their names. He looks at her, soft and sad and knowing. _

_ “Let me go.”  _

_ He’s begging. _

_ “Let me die a hero. That’s the man I want you to remember.” _

_ His hand is still over hers, his hook at her hip as he pulls her forward. _

_ “I love you,” she says. “Killian, I love you.” _

_ “I love you, too,” he says. _

_ She takes another step forward, the tip just over his breastbone. “Close your eyes,” she whispers. She can taste the tears as he pulls her even closer, as the sword pierces flesh and slices through with no resistance, as he kisses her. _

_ She is sobbing,  _ sobbing _ , emotions so strong they are painful as they rush through her and she feels his lips on hers and lets gravity do the rest as they both fall to the ground. _

I love you.

I love you.

_ There is a pulse of warmth and light and energy and then-- _

Emma opened her eyes and turned to Killian, looked at him with clarity and certainty as her memory, the  _ true _ memory, slotted back into its rightful place and her world came apart, her fate splintered to pieces, as she slid down from her chair and her knees hit the cold flagstone.

Hades watched her as she buried her face in her hands and cried.

  
  


**[[SB]]**

She did this to him.

She worries when he can’t sleep but there’s another part, a bigger part, that worries even more when he does, that can only process his closed eyes and still form the way it was when he’d been dead, when she’d held him and felt the loseeness and then the stiffness as the life left him because of a wound she’d inflicted. 

She can still feel the warmth and the softness and the taste of him the way it was when she’d kissed him and whispered, “Close your eyes.”

She remembers her mother’s arms and her whisper and how inadequate it had been in the face of her loss. “I’m so sorry, baby,” rasping in her ear as the emotions she’d thought herself free of came rushing back, filling her until she was ready to burst. 

The stiffness in her fingers as she uncurled them, one by one, from Excalibur--from the sword which bore neither her name nor Killian’s, its silver bright and shining in the moonlight. 

The fleeting warmth that left her as they bore his body away.

The angle of his arm where it hung off the gurney.

She sees it again every time she closes her eyes--the burst of rainbow light and the way his eyes changed back into someone she knew.

The man she loved.

The man who loved her.

“Killian,” she says, and he startles at her voice and the sound of his name. “I’m going to tell you a story.”

She sees it in her dreams. 

Every night she saves him.

But that’s not how this story goes.

  
  


**[[UW]]**

Her eyes hurt. Her cheeks, her mouth, her nose was stuffed, there were crescent-shaped markes in the skin of her palms from where her fists had clenched, her entire body exhausted from the weeping.

_ Exhausted _ .

Just like--

The cemetery. The diner. With the witch. And with Liam.

This wasn’t right, this wasn’t--

Emma looked up and Hades grinned.

“Water does tend to put a fire out, doesn’t it?” He cocked an eyebrow, thoroughly amused.

She wanted to get up--she wanted to wipe that smug smile off his face and turn it to ash with his  _ fire _ , she wanted to rip Killian down from that wall and run, all the way back up to the world of the living, she wanted her magic to fill her, to feel its comforting cool energy--

But the magic didn’t come.

And Emma couldn’t move.

Hades was still watching her as if he could read every thought in her mind and he rubbed his hands and winked again. “I’m going  _ suck you dry,  _ Savior,” he said, and his voice belied his expression as it positively dripped with menace, with intent, the words twisting as his grin became a snarl. “Every last breath. Every remaining heartbeat. Every spark of energy, of magic, that you possess, I will take.”

He straightened, smoothing his tie, dusting an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulder as his smile returned--as if nothing had happened. “Oh,” he said. “I know what you’re thinking. God of the Underworld, and all of that. What use could your magic be compared to all of this?”

He spread his arms wide.

“I just figured you needed to upgrade your decor,” Emma said through gritted teeth. “Maybe get a new suit.” She was straining to move, pushing so hard against the invisible bonds that her vision went grey.

“Oooooooh,” Hades sighed with pure pleasure. “Fight it, yes. Please fight it. It’s so much better when you do.” He cocked his head and leaned forward. “So much better when  _ both _ of you do.” 

Hades thew his gaze toward Killian and  _ shuddered _ .

“Now, he really should have gone Down, but--I can’t say I’m sorry I got to spend some time with him.  _ Quality  _ time. Dark One magic in  _ my _ house, oh--what an absolute treat.”

Confusion rose up inside her.

“Oh.  _ Oh _ .” Hades’ head swung back to Emma. “You don’t know, do you? Oh. This is  _ too _ delicious. You see--” he flung a hand in Killian’s direction, his eyes never leaving hers “--when this one took on the Darkness and sacrificed himself, he should have gone straight down Below. But he  _ kissed _ you.”

Emma wanted to lick her lips but she couldn’t, she couldn’t move, all she could do was see in her mind’s eye that terrible final moment, feel the weight of his lips on hers, the light--

The  _ rainbow _ light.

True Love’s Kiss.

_ Fucking hell _ .

“And when I harvest your magic,  _ both _ of yours, it will give me enough power to rip these bonds.” Hades shook his hands, as if unshackling himself. “Power enough to break my ties to this-- _ place _ .” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Power enough to transcend and ascend and enter  _ your _ world.” He leaned farther, closer to where she sat, close enough that if he was breathing she would have felt it on her face.

“And then I’ll have some real fun.”

  
  


**[[SB]]**

“Once upon a time,” she said, “there was a woman. A savior, some called her. But really she was just a girl, a lost girl, who had spent her entire life looking for a home. And then she found it.”

She’s watching him and he thinks he should know this part the way he should know her but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t.

“But the woman, she--” her fist clenches “--she fucked up. She believed too much, or…”

He watches her, watches the way her face shifts as her voice trails into nothing, into silence.

“Maybe she didn’t believe enough. In herself. In the people she loved. In the people who  _ loved her _ .”

She reaches for his hand.

“Because of that, people died.  _ You _ , Killian. You died to save me. To save all of us from what I had done when I couldn’t pay the price.”

The dirt is still fresh and he can smell it, the turned earth in the morning air (he can smell the flowers in the field as they were when he lay dying). 

_ Killian Jones _ .

That’s the name she keeps calling  _ him _ and she says it again, softly, hesitating as she looks at him. For a brief moment there is water in her eyes, a sad smile.

“The magic demanded a sacrifice, a human soul to destroy the Darkness. You gave it one.”

And even through the rage and the fury and the darkness howling, he nods. She is the only thing good and solid and real, and he would go to the end of the world for her.

“Power. Courage. Heart. Soul.”

His voice is barely a whisper.

“Dragon.”

And then the words are gone, vanished into the air as if he had never spoken; he can do nothing but listen, captivated by the pain in her voice as she explains. Explains how he, at the last, took the sword from her. Begged. 

“Let me die a hero. That’s the man I want you to remember.” 

Tells him how she leaned to kiss him and how he met her halfway and how finally,  _ finally _ they saw it, felt it: the burst of warmth and light, all around him, around them, warm and golden and--

She tells him in words that are broken and halting how it felt to watch his body fall, to hear it as it hit the ground, how her mother pulled her upright. “I couldn’t accept it,” she says. “I had made up my mind! I was going to fix what I had broken, because I finally understood…” Her voice trails off and picks up again. “I don’t even remember your funeral. My father had to give your eulogy.”

Her sigh is long and heavy as she seems to disappear inside of herself. He feels the strangest urge to pull her back.

(Come back to me)

  
  


**[[UW]]**

Emma could barely breathe. She felt like she was screaming, only she could not-- _ would not _ \--give Hades the satisfaction.

“Funny thing about True Love’s Kiss,” Hades said. “Even funnier that you seem to have--” he coughed “-- _ misremembered _ . Which leaves me with the question of how, exactly, you came here. How  _ did  _ you bypass the ferry, Emma Swan?”

Like a veil parting in her mind, there it was:

_ The lakeshore. _

Killian’s lifeless body beneath hers, a sword through his chest, a sword that disappeared into thin air as she struggled to get up, as she screamed his name, as she clutched his hand,

as his hand

cooled 

_ The cemetery. _

David saying words, about Killian, about her, about them, together, but she heard none of them,  _ none _ of them, above her own traitorous heartbeat and the blood pounding in her ears.

_ The loft _ .

Where she had accosted Regina after the funeral and demanded,  _ demanded _ , a spell, an incantation, something--anything--that would take her to Killian, wherever he was, because this

_ this _

She had to fix.

(This wasn’t how the story ended)

“Isn’t that what got you into this mess, Miss Swan?” and the cut of Regina’s voice contrasting with the sadness--the sympathy--in her eyes.

And all Emma said, all there was to say: “You owe me.”

_ Gold’s shop. _

Where they all stood, looking at her; mother, father, son. Because it took  _ all _ of them: blood, hair, tears. Regina’s and Emma’s magic combined.

And Belle--Belle with the Waters of Lethe.

“You’d better hope that really was True Love’s Kiss, Emma,” Regina said, softly this time, a gentle warning, “or Killian will be farther beyond death than even  _ you _ can go.”

“I don’t understand,” Emma said, and Henry--

He said, “I know it was. I believe.”

Threw his book on the table and pointed.

“Killian’s in the Elysian Plain, I’m sure of it.” There were tears in his eyes, tears of belief and love and Emma cried, too, even as Regina collected them for the spell. “He died a hero.”

Power, courage, heart.

But still, there was a price.

The price of a memory vanished--

\--and a soul.

Coming out of remembrance was like breaking the surface after an eternity under water, and Emma breathed, as if for the first time, and Hades  _ didn’t notice _ , his attention entirely on Liam, his eyes glinting with their malevolent blue flame.

“No matter,” Hades said with affected indifference. “Best to be getting on with it.”

She could do it. She could make a break for it. This was the moment, but--

“First of all--I have no use for  _ him _ .” He waved his hand and Liam vanished and Emma squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the tell-tale sound of the splash, but there was nothing.

Emma opened her eyes to see Hades leaning forward, his voice a stage whisper as he said, “Don’t worry. All I did was return the big one back to his cottage. A deal’s a deal, after all.”

A strangled noise came from behind her and Emma knew it was Killian, trying to break free, and then watched Hades roll his eyes gain as the sound cut off midway through. And she knew that she couldn’t get herself, couldn’t get Killian, out.

She wasn’t even sure if she could stand upright.

Hades was looking at Killian with disgust. “Quiet, please. You should know by now there’s nothing I love so much as the sound of my own voice.” He snickered, then sobered, his attention back on Emma. “Here’s the thing. When your lover--” the way he said ‘lover’ could have curdled fresh milk “--flung himself down here, he didn’t go all the way down. And--even better--he retained some of his magic.”

He let his arm drop slowly, still looking at Emma. “And  _ you! _ You, Savior, had restored your unblemished heart and then you just followed him down here. With your  _ heartbeat _ . Crashing our little party. I really couldn’t have planned it better myself, with the two of you and the way you just--” he mimed mocking air quotes “--’couldn’t let go’. That’s your thing, right?” 

And then, without warning, he lifted hand again and pointed in the other direction.

“Lucky me,” Hades breathed.

Killian smacked down hard on the ground next to Emma, his head hitting the stone with a dull thud. His face twisted in pain, but no sound came out.

And nothing in her life--not the Darkness, not the Light, not the magic, not her job or her family--had prepared her for what it felt like, in this moment, to stare down the god of Death and know that she could do nothing but watch.

There was nothing in her arsenal she could use to combat the sense of failure--of doom--rasping at the very edges of her consciousness as she struggled to move, to think, to plan, to  _ hope _ .

“See, that kind of magic down here, it’s delicious power; the power of the Light and the Dark, the power of Life and Death. True Love’s Kiss was just the cherry on top--quite the force to supercharge my own.” He licked his lips. “Oh--it was almost too perfect. And then--” he straightened back up, ticking the steps off on his fingertips “--all I had to do was let you find him, all hurt and  _ broken _ , oh no, and give your magic a jump start to heal him, and then--poof--get you all here for the big reveal.”

He took a bow.

  
  


**[[SB]]**

She remembers, now. Remembers what she couldn’t before, because of the potion and the spell. Remembers the look on Regina’s face as it sagged with the weight of all that hung unresolved between them. “You owe me,” Emma said.

She remembers her mother’s words and the sadness etched into her brow. She remembers her father’s arm and his quiet strength. “Let me help you this time,” her mother said. “Let both of us help you.”

She remembers Henry’s arms and the way they wrapped around her and the way his face still showed love and trust and hope. “I believe in you, Mom.”

Blood of the father, hair of the mother, tears of the son.

And one last thing, Regina said.

“In order to cross into the Underworld, you must forget that Killian died. You have to forget that you are alive, and believe that you were the one to make the sacrifice.”

The waters of Lethe.

\--

“It was you, Killian.” She’s crying. “The only reason any of it worked was because of you. Because even then, you still believed in me.”

He thinks he can see the world in her eyes as she says this, as she whispers, “Death cannot stop True Love. It can only delay it.”

“ _ You _ were my sacrifice,” she says. “My True Love. But Hades was right. I couldn’t let you go.”

_ True Love. _

“I miss you. I miss you so much. I’m sorry.”

And this--this one thing, this one, small thing that  _ finally _ means something to him, that means everything to him---

this he will not give up.

Not inside the shreds of his ruined existence, not inside the screaming and howling and darkness and fury, not for anything, anything

anything 

at 

all

(And he knows, he  _ knows _ , that whatever she is atoning for, he has already forgiven)

  
  


**[[UW]]**

“So, back to the fun part,” Hades said, raising his hand as he advanced on Killian.

That’s when it happened, when Emma felt it--pain so intense it was all-consuming; she no longer knew where she was--who she was--as every inch of her was fire and she was, finally, screaming.

And then it stopped.

It stopped.

Emma rolled over, got to her knees, shaking, and she knew.

Hades had made a mistake.

Because now that she  _ remembered _ , she could feel him--she could  _ feel _ him, feel Killian and his magic and the way it reached for her own.

Feeble, drained, fading--but there.

Their connection.

In spite of everything, in spite of Darkness and torture and  _ death _ , to the end of the world. 

Or time.

Because Killian  _ was _ a hero.

Because he believed in her. 

Still. Always.

It came on like a freight train, a lightning strike, a tidal wave; Emma felt her magic surge. It cut through the spell holding her, holding  _ them _ , and oh god, it fucking  _ hurt _

it 

hurt 

so 

much

But.

Hades had made a mistake.

Emma was going to make sure it was his  _ last _ mistake.

He moved again to strike but this time-- _ this time _ \--she was ready.

If this was the end--if this was how the story ended--she was going to do it right, this time. Together. Together like they should have, could have, fought against the Darkness.

Because they still, after everything, made a good team.

With a roar she jumped up in one powerful contraction of muscle and tendon and then light exploded from her fingertips, blazing, blinding

and she turned it on Hades who looked surprised, and just a little disappointed, as he lazily flicked his left hand and a jet of blue light shot from his fingers and then---

She focused on the magic, on the power, hers and Killian’s and the way they seamlessly combined, Light and Dark, life and death--True Love--and set it free.

The energy splintered as the beams met, a thousand sparks arcing across the flagstone.

Hades’ face changed, his smile twisting into disbelief and rage but it was too late.

She had him.  _ They _ had him.

The thread broke.

Emma heard his scream of fiery rage and reached for Killian’s blunted wrist just before Hades’ head connected with the stone floor, accompanied by a satisfying  _ crack _ .

The next thing she saw was an endless field of grass under a blood red sky.

  
  



	9. Touch Me I'm Going to Scream (Part 2)

* * *

He felt her even before he woke up, felt her fingers in his hair and on his cheek.

Felt her trembling.

Felt her sobs.

He felt her and it was like he was whole again--home again. It was both a balm and a wound as he felt her chest rise and fall with her breathing, as he felt the racing of her heart, as he listened to her cry, releasing all of the emotions that had been missing from her--from _them_ \--in the Darkness.

Killian Jones opened his eyes and saw her and said her name.

“Emma.”

She inhaled, choking on a sob. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot, the skin puffy. The rest of her was pale and the blackness of her eyelashes stood out against the white of her cheeks. 

(And yet his Swan was still beautiful, still the most stunning thing he had ever seen in all of the realms.)

He sat up slowly, holding his head. He winced and so did she, waving a hand across his face as she muttered, “Sorry.”

Which could encompass a whole myriad of things, but his headache vanished. 

It was a start, at least.

Killian’s grimace turned into a smile and he took her hand.

She flinched and sputtered, her eyes flashing, darting; he followed her movements until their eyes met. “Please, love. Close your eyes.”

And she did.

“Breathe out slowly,” he whispered, letting the warmth of her hand seep into him. “Don’t breathe in until I tell you to.” _Breathe with me_ , he usually said, but--

The first time he had done this for her had been in Neverland. A lifetime ago.

Literally.

She’d been sitting by the fire, staring into the flames as her parents spoke to each other in low voices. He’d seen it, seen the moment where all of it became too much. He was the only one who did, and he was the only one who followed her, who saw her go down hard when her foot caught on a vine. His was the hand that reached for hers to offer comfort, to grasp her wrist gently and ask her to close her eyes--to concentrate on his voice--to breathe with him.

“Okay, Swan, breathe in,” Killian said, but here, now, the air was cold and raw instead of hot and damp. The only warmth inside him came from her.

Her eyes were open and she watched him as if she could see the memory playing inside his skull. 

Maybe she could.

“Everything will be all right,” he said, and for an instant, feeling her hand in his as she inhaled and exhaled, breathing as though she could do it for both of them, he _believed_. Killian wasn’t sure which of them moved first but there was the brush of her lips against his, soft and gentle, and the warmth inside of him grew hotter, sparking everywhere they touched from the magic.

She kissed him and it was bitter when it should be sweet. 

Love was a weapon.

The warmth vanished.

“That’s better,” he said. He squeezed her fingers and she opened her eyes. “I told you to let me go.”

“I know,” she said. She sobbed a laugh. “I never listen.” Her entire body was shaking when she reached for him, cupping his cheeks in her hands, their foreheads together, her breath warm against his nose. “I _never_ listen. Killian, I’m so sorry.”

He nodded but did not pull away and she kissed him again. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” he said, because he did. “I know, love. I’m sorry too.”

Killian could feel it: the rage. The hate, the anger, the determination. All of it, everything the Darkness had resurfaced bubbling up inside of him. Everything he wanted to leave behind.

Love was a weapon. They had twisted it, used it against each other; for all that it was True, look where they had ended up.

Love was a weapon as persuasive and dangerous as magic.

“I’m sorry I broke my promise,” Killian said.

“No, you’re not,” she said.

“No, I’m not,” he agreed, and she chuckled. It was drier this time. She was breathing without rasping. _She_ was breathing.

“I love you,” she said. “I love you.”

He felt the tears streaming down his face as she said it, as he reached for her, his hand on the back of her neck and he felt the chain there. Killian remembered giving it to her as if it was a dream, something feverish and hazy from Before. Her hand came over his as he followed the chain, his hand clasping the ring and her hand wrapped around his.

_I am here._ _  
_ _With you._ _  
_ _Always._

The magic sparked again. His forehead flushed with warmth from where it was pressed against Emma’s.

“I love you,” he said. “I _still_ love you. Here, and now, and always.”

\--

Emma didn’t know what to _do_ when there was nothing to _do_. She was a creature of action, of forward motion, and this--this sitting in a cemetery in the goddamn Underworld with the breath of life and the heartbeat which were apparently power and currency enough to draw every last wayward demon out of the woodwork to harvest both, oh--

But then there was nothing but the feeling of his lips on hers.

The _feeling_. Of Killian.

With her.

When he took her hand and he was _here_ and he was _whole_ and she saw herself reflected in his eyes and remembered how, even then, from the first, in Neverland, he’d been there for her and she’d doubted him and used him and hurt him over and over and--

_That’s_ what Merlin had meant.

_That_ was her legacy.

But in this moment, here and now, there was Killian against her, _I love you_ still hanging in the air between them like it had been Before, only she’s said it--she’s _said_ it--and she meant it and she felt it, right down to the bottom of her beating heart. Home and warmth and--

Emma pulled away. This wasn’t her happy ending. This wasn’t an _ending_. This was a step on the path forward. 

Action.

With a sigh she reached into her waistband. “I have something of yours,” she said, pulling out the metal hook. “I--” _kept it_ , she didn’t say; _used it to keep part of you with me_ , she didn’t say. She didn’t have to. “Hades, he--”

“He took it,” Killian said. His arms came around her, solid and real and steady, and they stayed like that. She didn’t know how long.

It didn’t matter, not in this world without time.

But eventually the feeling of absolute urgency resurfaced.

Hurry up.

_Hurry up_.

And Killian sensed it, too, because he pulled back and said, quietly, “Where is Liam?” When the hook _clicked_ back into place it echoed like a gunshot in the stillness. He stood up and offered her his hand. She took it, pulling herself to her feet.

Emma shook her head. “I think Hades sent him back to his cottage, you know, poofed him there to get him out of the way. That’s what he said.”

“Forgive me if I’m not feeling charitably inclined toward the god of the Underworld, love,” Killian said. He looked around. “Liam’s not here, and he may be hurt.”

“There was no splash,” Emma said, and then, quickly, when Killian’s hand started to shake, added, “I mean, I don’t think it works like that. I don’t think he can hurt Liam.”

Killian’s brow furrowed, but he was listening.

“Your brother died and came here. The regular way, not like you or me,” she said. Only, technically, Killian _was_ dead. His eyebrow went up and it was almost-- _almost_ \--like it used to be, just for a second. A corner of her mouth turned up and she took in a deep breath. “He took the ferry. He didn’t sneak in or get snatched or whatever. I don’t think Hades has the power to harm anyone who belongs down here. I don’t think he gets to decide who goes where.”

“No,” Killian said. He drew out the word as if it was much longer than two letters. “I don’t suppose he does.”

“Is that why he wanted your magic so badly?”

“ _Our_ magic, yeah.” Emma nodded. 

It was still strange, to think of Killian with magic. To think it and not to see in her head the image of him wielding it with rage and glee and aggression, to see him wielding it against her.

Forward.

“But also--I know it sounds crazy--but I think you’d know if Liam was being tortured somewhere. You’d feel it. Do you feel anything like that?”

Killian was silent for a long time and then he shook his head. “No. I don’t. And I think you’re right, Swan. I _would_ feel it.”

“Good,” Emma said. She squeezed his fingers. Only--

She needed to know. She _knew_ , because she’d found him, but she needed to _know_.

“Where were you? When you got here?”

He looked away when he said, so quietly she almost couldn’t hear him, “The Elysian Plain.”

Emma could hear Henry’s voice in her head, his certainty as he explained, _Elysium. It’s the final resting place of the virtuous in the Underworld._ Her kid with The Heart of the Truest Believer and he’d been right, again.

“Henry was right,” Emma said. “He was so sure that’s where you went.”

Killian blinked, and then smiled, turning back to face her. “Was he, now.”

“He never stopped believing in you,” Emma said.

“He never stopped believing in you, either,” Killian said. 

Emma sniffed. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“I know.”

“I did this to you. To _us_.”

“We both made our choices, Emma.”

“Yeah,” she said.

Silence, heavy and awkward.

“How long was I gone?”

“A couple of weeks,” Emma said, then: “I think. I’m not sure. I was a little bit--”

He gave _her_ fingers a squeeze. 

“Was it--?” Emma wasn’t sure what to ask, or if she wanted to know, but she couldn’t stop herself. “What was it like? Before Hades--”

“I don’t think I was there very long,” Killian said. “It was quiet there, I think. I felt--complete. As if I belonged.”

“Oh,” Emma said.

He took her hand, the hand he still held, and brought it up to his lips. “I felt the way I do when I’m with you, love.”

Warmth danced on her fingers and Emma stood on her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him on his cheek. “Because you belong _with_ me,” she said. “And _we_ belong back in Storybrooke. With our family. So let’s go see the witches first, okay? If anyone can help us, they can.”

Forward motion.

Another step on the path.

\--

_“Attack!”_

Cerberus bounded at them, wagging his entire hind quarters. His front paws were on Emma’s shoulders as he put two of his heads to excellent use by licking both Killian’s and Emma’s cheeks. 

Emma nearly buckled under the weight.

“I said _attack!”_ Cruella’s voice was screeching from behind the counter before a second voice started to laugh out loud.

“Down!” Emma said to the dog as, to everyone’s surprise--including her own--the hellhound perked up his heads and dropped his paws back to the floor.

Killian whistled. Cerberus responded by butting one of his heads into Killian’s hand so hard he stumbled backward, and Emma grinned. “You’d better start the ear-scratching now, or you’ll find yourself buried under a ton of hellhound muscle, and really, there are more comfortable places to be pinned.”

Killian laughed out loud and it was the first time she had heard him laugh since--

It had been a while.

For a moment it was as if none of it had happened, as if they were back in a time Before--before Darkness and sacrifice and swords, with just two of them. He threw her an absolutely filthy look and started to pet Cerberus as if he hadn’t just reminded Emma of all they had lost.

_She_ had lost.

Squandered. Blown up.

_Stabbed_.

But there was no time to dwell on it, not even in a world with no time.

She was fixing it. _They_ were fixing it.

There was action to be taken.

(Another step on the path.)

“What is it that you want now?” There was nothing but annoyance in Cruella’s voice as she arched a perfectly-plucked eyebrow in concert with her perfect red lips, a dance of disdain.

Emma jerked her head toward Killian. “What do you think?”

The Blind Witch’s eyes narrowed as she stepped out from behind the counter. “A way home. For you and the owner of that manly voice you brought in with you.” She shivered. “You need our _help_.”

“We simply require assistance from those more knowledgeable than we are,” Killian said. “I understand that you have very thorough knowledge of this realm and its tricks.” The Blind Witch walked right up to him and snapped her fingers. Cerberus retreated instantly through the kitchen door.

Emma snickered as Cruella rolled her eyes.

“Don’t be mad, kitten,” the Witch whispered. “I have fresh children in the oven and he loves the smell of those.” She winked at Emma. “Gingerbread, I mean. He _loves_ gingerbread.” Her unseeing eyes went back to Killian as she ran her hand down his front, touching places Emma found it absolutely unacceptable for her to touch and Killian was _definitely_ not comfortable being touched, judging by the large step he took backward. 

But the Witch was unperturbed. “Don’t flatter yourself, Captain,” she said. “You’re not my type.” Her face went slack with complete concentration and she stood motionless, her hand still on Killian’s chest until finally she licked her lips and nodded.

“I think he might have enough juice left in his engine,” she said, walking back to Cruella. “What do you think, kitten? Shall we have a little fun, help them get out of here?”

“I’d rather put that one--” she pointed at Emma “--in unbreakable irons and suck the life out of her. _Literally_. Preferably in a long, drawn-out process. Years if I can make it.” She smiled, leaning into the Blind Witch’s ear. “Decades, if possible.”

The Blind Witch shivered again. “Tempting,” she agreed. “It does sound marvelous. But think about it--think about what it means if they _leave_.”

“No torture for me?”

“Think _bigger_.” The Blind Witch cackled. “Think of a different target.”

“We could just grab a smidgen of that one’s breath and heartbeat,” Cruella said slowly, dragging every vowel across hot coals. “And then maybe--are you thinking--the Big Guy himself?”

The Blind Witch twirled one of the many frayed ends of her choker and said, “Yes, kitten. I think we can kick him right out of his custom-made knickers. Send him Below. _Way_ Below.”

Emma shuddered but refused to let herself think about where Killian might have ended up. As if he was answering her, he stepped closer, wrapping his arm around her waist.

Killian was here.

And they were going to get home.

Emma put her hand on his chest as they watched, waiting for the women to work out their fate.

The absence of his breath tickling her ear was painful and Emma made herself a promise: when they got home-- _when_ they got home--she was going to spend days just lying across his chest, listening to his heartbeat, letting his breath tickle her neck.

“Staging a revolution does have a certain ring to it. You should see me in a crown,” Cruella mused, then heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Fine.”

The Blind Witch traced a finger across Cruella’s cheekbone and grinned.

“But all magic comes with a price. And _you_ ’ll be the one to pay it. Savior.” Cruella spat the last word, her finger pointed at Emma’s heart. She spun on her heel and walked back to the counter.

“Hand me a jar, pet,” the Blind Witch whispered. She reached a hand behind her and did not turn to look, her eyes never leaving Emma and Killian. She unscrewed the cap and handed it to Emma. “Be a dear and breathe into this?”

Emma blew into the jar and the Witch snatched it back and capped it. 

“My down payment.”

“We’re going to need to make a stop first,” Emma said, feeling Killian’s arm tighten around her waist. “Where do you want to meet?”

“Here,” Cruella said. Her smile was vicious. “Hurry back, darlings.”

\--

They were partway down the cottage walkway when Killian saw his brother. The door opened and Liam stepped out, blinking, squinting into the red light as if he had been waiting for them and even still could not believe his eyes. “Brother?”

“Liam!”

Killian dropped Emma’s hand and began sprinting.

Liam met him halfway.

They collided hard, nearly knocking each other off their feet, holding each other up by the force of the crushing bear hug. Killian was crying and laughing as, for the first time in two centuries, he felt the comforting weight of his brother’s arms around him.

Finally Killian stepped back, scratching behind his right ear, and said, “Emma, love, come meet my brother.”

And both Emma and Liam laughed out loud.

“We’ve met,” Liam said drily. “She hit me.”

“You deserved it,” Emma grumbled good-naturedly.

Watching his brother and Emma laugh Killian felt a lightness he had not in a long time. “I’m sure he did,” Killian agreed. “He usually does.” Then he leaned conspiratorially toward Liam and whispered, “She held a knife to my neck.”

“You deserved that!” Emma said.

“She tied me to a tree,” Killian added. “Left me to be eaten by an ogre.”

“Did you really?” Liam looked at Emma.

“No, I cut him down,” Emma said. “He was fine. Obviously.”

The laughter cut off abruptly and Emma cursed. “Shit,” she muttered.

Because nothing was fine.

They were in the Underworld. She had killed him.

He had asked her to.

“Hey,” Killian said. He pulled her hand into his and threaded their fingers together, rubbing her wrist with his thumb. “Hey.” She curled into his side and he moved his hand to her waist, kissing her against her temple. Her hand went to his chest, to his cheek. Where she touched him, he felt warmth.

Killian wasn’t sure who was comforting whom.

Liam cleared his throat and put a hand on Killian’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. We worked it out. Didn’t we, Emma?”

She straightened herself and said, “We did.”

“Come inside and have some tea, little brother,” Liam said. “Tell me everything.”

“Younger brother.” It was automatic, and Killian felt his smile resurface. “And I’ve got about two hundred years on you now, mate.”

Liam’s eyes widened before he settled his face back into his habitual smirk.

“You’re still my little brother, Killian. Now get in the house.”

\--

They sat in Liam’s kitchen and had tea. _Tea_. 

It felt so normal, listening to Liam and Killian talk. It felt _too_ normal, _too_ finite, and it was taking too much time.

Hurry up.

_Hurry up_.

“--and then Emma started to yell at me.”

Emma’s attention snapped back to the conversation at the mention of her name, and saw both men look at her, with nearly identical wry grins.

“Aye,” Killian said. “Though I quite fancy her, I do prefer it when she’s not yelling, even though a good Swan rant can be exhilarating.”

Liam laughed again, and it was _too normal_.

They should be using this time to say good-bye, not tell tales.

And yet--

“You think it’s so charming, don’t you,” Emma said.

“No, love, I leave charming to other men, as you well know,” Killian said. “But be honest, in Neverland--”

“Neverland?” Liam coughed. “Neverland, Killian? What could have possessed you to go back to that place after--?”

Emma saw it on his face, knew that Killian would never be able to explain to his brother the things that had happened, that he’d seen. That he’d _done_. Knew he wouldn’t want to, even if they had time.

Which they didn’t.

“Killian took me there to save my son Henry,” Emma said quietly. “His--his stepson.”

“My--” Killian was very still. _Very_ still. “Swan?”

“Killian’s stepson?” Liam looked--he looked so _proud_ . Emma could give him this. Could give _them_ this.

“He helped me save Henry from Pan. He _died_ to protect Henry, and Henry loves him. Killian takes him sailing and tells him stories about the great Captain Liam Jones.” She smiled. “You’re an uncle, Liam. Congratulations.”

Killian’s hand around hers was so tight Emma almost couldn’t feel her fingertips.

Liam’s face was serious when he said, “I can see you’ve chosen well, brother.”

“No,” Emma said, cutting Killian off before he could speak. It stabbed through Emma’s gut like a sharp blade, like Excalibur itself, the idea that _she_ was the prize. When she was the reason they were down here, when this was her mess they were cleaning up. “I’m the lucky one. You need to know that.” Her voice was gravel and dust.

Liam watched her, watched both of them. “I can see why you like her,” he said, and Emma was thrown back into the tunnel as the fury rose up in her again that Liam would use that word.

_He doesn’t like me. He loves me. He loves me more than I deserve._

_And you?_

_More than I can stand, sometimes. With everything I have, little as it is._

This time, Killian cut _her_ off. “I don’t _like_ her,” he said. He was quiet and resolute, absolutely certain. “I _love_ her.” He turned to Emma and leaned his head toward hers until their foreheads touched, until their noses touched, until his lips brushed hers. “I love her more than I have ever loved anything or anyone.”

He kissed her and Emma wanted to weep as the warmth rushed through her because this, _this_ , was the first time he kissed her and it felt like _Before_.

When they finally pulled apart Emma felt her soul aching. They had to get back.

They had to get _back_.

Back to a place where Killian’s heart was beating and his breath whispered across her skin and his lips weren’t cold.

They had to.

_Now._

  
  


\--

  
  


Watching them, watching the way they were together, Liam was unsurprised when Killian suddenly stood up and said, “We have to leave, Liam,” as if there had been an entire conversation happening and only this last part was said out loud.

Liam could almost believe he saw sparks of energy dance between them when they touched. 

He nodded and got up, following his brother’s movements. His _younger_ brother, now two hundred years older than he was. “I’m coming with you,” he said.

Emma stiffened. “I don’t think you--” 

“You can’t go where we’re going, brother,” Killian said. “You know that.”

“I do know that.” Liam rolled his eyes and reached for his jacket. “But I do plan to go as far as this realm will let me. I plan to spend every possible moment with my family before I face another eternity alone.”

“A hero’s journey,” Killian said.

“You’re the hero, brother,” Liam said. He opened the front door and stepped out on the porch and ignored, for a minute, the two people behind him, wrapped around each other and wiping tears from their eyes.

He couldn’t ignore the easy way Emma held Killian’s hook in her hand, or the many questions he had about it. That part of his brother’s story was not one they shared. 

So Liam simply walked alongside them, his arm wrapped around his brother’s shoulder, his brother’s wrapped around his. They walked together, Emma and Killian in unison, the lines of their bodies constantly angled toward each other, their movements in perfect rhythm.

They had probably breathed in sync, back when Killian had breathed.

They deserved to breathe together again.

The bell over the door rang and Cruella snarled, “Finally.”

Liam could feel a buzzing in his veins; there was magic here, powerful magic lying in wait. For Emma. For Killian.

Liam turned to Cruella to see her staring at him, a mixture of undisguised lust and abject loathing in her eyes. “Why did you bring the tree trunk?” Her voice dripped disdain.

“I’m here to make sure you get them where they need to go,” Liam said. “I don’t trust either one of you.”

“Oh ye of little faith.” The Blind Witch sighed and Cruella looked at her in surprise. “Oh, darling, we get lots of people with cute sayings down here. Totally lost and flabbergasted, the lot of them.” She leaned forward and whispered, “There’s a group called _Catholics_. They’re the most fun. They have the best bon mots. I rather enjoy those.”

Everyone stared at her, including Cruella. 

“The bon mots,” the Witch clarified. “And the people. Right.” She shrugged. “Let’s get down to business, shall we? Put your lips against this.”

Emma took from her hands a metal-plated hose. It had a mouthpiece.

Liam felt a sense of foreboding; looking at Killian he saw his concern mirrored in his brother’s eyes. Emma smiled, soft and encouraging.

“This is going to hurt a bit,” the Blind Witch said. She snapped her fingers and Emma instantly doubled over and tried to pull the mouthpiece from her lips but couldn’t--

couldn’t move at all, just gave a mumbled cry of pain--

And Killian looked at Liam and together they stepped forward.

Toward Cruella.

Cruella, whose eyes were riveted on Emma, nearly salivating at her pain.

Together they pinned Cruella between them, Liam putting her into a headlock as Killian twisted her right arm up her back until Cruella screamed.

Everything went quiet and the mouthpiece detached from Emma’s lips with an audible _plop_.

“Are we done playing games now?” Killian asked. “Or shall we break every bone in this one’s body?” His entire focus was on the Blind Witch and there was pure murder in his eyes and Liam only just kept himself from flinching. “Because by the time I’m done with her--” _I_ now, not we, Liam noted, as something seemed to come over his brother “--you’ll need a wheelbarrow to carry her around. _Forever_.”

Red sparks glittered around Killian’s fingertips and the Blind Witch gasped and Cruella groaned and the spell was broken. Emma stood up, reaching for Killian, and he ran his hand across her face, checking for damage, his eyes wide and worried.

But he would not meet Liam’s gaze; nor, after his brief examination, would he meet Emma’s.

“I’m fine,” Emma whispered, pulling Killian’s face down toward her and forcing him to look at her. “I’m fine. We’re done. Let her go.”

This was directed at Liam and he complied instantly, shoving Cruella back toward the wall.

“Then let’s get going,” Killian croaked. “You got what you paid for.”

Cruella was panting and rolling her shoulders and there was a something about the Witch’s face when she said, “Fine.” She walked over to Cruella, whispering, “She pays the price, kitten, don’t forget, she _promised_.”

It didn’t sound fine to Liam. Killian’s eyes narrowed, his mouth opened, but--

\--

When the smoke cleared Killian could hear the water, its gentle lapping as calm and soothing as a lullabye as it echoed around the cave. It was an enormous space, easily ten times the size of Arthur’s library and twice as high. Pillars of rough-hewn rock ran from the ceiling to the floor in every direction, surrounding them and Cruella’s laugh hummed discordantly against the sound of the gurgling stream.

The Witch’s eyes were shiny and bright as she licked her lips in anticipation.

Liam looked dazed as he tried to take it all in and Killian could do nothing but hold on to Emma, her breath, her warmth, her heartbeat all forming anchors for his sanity. 

His rage in the diner--the memory of the power rushing up inside him--

_He_ belonged here.

_She_ didn’t.

But Emma made no move to free herself from him. Instead she kissed his cheek and put a warm hand on his, rubbed soft circles into his skin with her thumb as she settled against his side. She smiled. It was a hopeful smile and the light of it almost-- _almost_ \--brightened the cave and the darkness settling over Killian’s mood.

“Where are we?” Emma’s voice was not quite steady and he wondered if she was really fine, or if that infernal device back at the diner had truly hurt her. He wondered what it had _done_ , really, that the Witch and Cruella were so willing and eager to help them.

Surely the price of their release was greater than a single living breath--but it was a beath imbued with Light magic. Light magic and True Love and a beating heart.

Killian tried to settle himself. He closed his eyes and listened to the bubble of the river.

It felt-- _familiar._

The Blind Witch hissed.

“Well,” Cruella drawled, affecting boredom. “This is the way home, Savior. Your little True Love story with its happy ending. You drank the Waters of Lethe and you get home on the Mnemosyne.”

Killian’s eyes opened. But the gleam in Cruella’s eyes--the cadence of her voice--it was hypnotic.

_Hypnotic_.

This wasn’t the Mnemosyne.

This was the Cave of Hypnos.

This was the River Lethe.

_This_ was where Hades had dragged him, brought him back to himself only to torment him, to use him for his own ends.

This was the water Emma had drunk to make herself forget.

Liam was staring at him, his eyebrows high on his forehead; slowly, Killian shook his head.

“Are you all right?”

It was Emma’s voice, soft and worried. 

_She didn’t know_.

“Emma--” Killian’s mind was racing. “How did you get down here and find me?”

“Now?” Emma looked surprised.

“Indulge me, love,” he said, whispering. “Tell me the tale.”

“Regina and I--we created a spell.” _Power._ “And my mother, we used her hair. And my father’s blood.” _Courage_ . “Henry’s tears.” _Heart._

That left only one thing.

“Are you ready for this?” Emma asked.

_Soul_. His soul.

That was the price.

He was going to pay it.

There was no choice to make.

He nodded, mutely, and she kissed him. Her lips were so _warm_. 

Then she turned back to the Blind Witch, her shoulders pulled back and her spine straight. Her arm wrapped tightly around his waist and stayed there. 

The Blind Witch opened her hand.

Near the edge of the cave a small arc of water appeared, lifted from the river below, and split in two as they bent across stone to flow into her palm. Next to Killian, Emma was a statue, every part of her strung tightly like a bowstring.

She started to glow.

A sliver of white light burst from her chest and enveloped the streams and pooled in the Blind Witch’s hand, and then--

_Pain_.

The streams raced toward Killian, both of them, hitting his chest.

Emma screamed.

Liam jumped, running to Emma, pulling her away from him as something tore at Killian’s insides--not his organs, not his body, something deeper, more vital--and it hurt.

It _hurt_.

He knew only agony as the magic took him apart, his essence torn asunder.

He couldn’t scream as he fought to stay conscious, saw Emma try to rein in the light, break the chain--she hurled herself at Cruella who screamed in delight and glee and shrieked, “His soul! The price is his _soul_.”

Killian’s knees buckled, connected with rock; there was the pull of his brother’s arms under his shoulders and Emma’s face hovering in front of his. 

He was going to pay the price. There was no choice to make.

He looked at Liam. His brother, his captain, his friend and his ruin.

He looked at Emma. His True Love, his other half, his warrior orphan, his Savior, and _there was no choice to make._

“Emma,” he whispered. “Emma, go home. I trust you. I trust you to do what you think is right.”

_I love you._ _  
_ _Always._

Killian looked at the Blind Witch and nodded.

The Blind Witch nodded back.

And then he felt his mind splinter as his soul was ripped from his body.

\--

Emma pulls Killian from the waters of the lake, back onto the shore where he’d fallen.

Liam is gone; there is no one to help her.

But she _pulls_ . He is heavy, unmoving--she leans over his chest and _sobs_.

And then she feels it.

A heartbeat under her cheek.

Emma hears a breath drawn and exhaled and _another_ and the longer they lie there, on top of each other, the more he starts to warm up. He _moves_ , muscle flexing and twitching, and she sits up, laughing and crying at the same time.

He opens his eyes.

_He opens his eyes_ and he looks at her without a shred of recognition.

His eyes--his beautiful crystalline blue eyes--are _blank_.


	10. Heaven In Her Eyes

Emma is sprawled across him, on top of him--listening to his heart beat, counting his breaths, breathing with him, her fist clenched tightly around his ring on its chain around her neck--when they come. Time passes here, she can feel it--but she has no idea how long she’s been back. How long  _ they’ve _ been back.

Her father pulls her upright, holds her by her wrists.

Her mother’s hands are on her cheeks. “Don’t cry, baby,” she whispers. “Everything is going to be okay.”

Henry is on his knees on the ground, next to Killian, and looking up at her. “Mom,” he says. “What happened?”

But she doesn’t know.

He’s here--and he’s  _ gone _ .

Henry reaches for him and Killian’s entire body convulses, his eyes opening and his hand tensing. “Henry--”

The magic explodes. Not a lot--but it’s enough--just the smallest  _ whoosh _ and red smoke and Henry is pushed back on his heels as if he has been punched.

“--don’t,” Emma mumbles, and sways on her feet as the exhaustion, the true, bone-deep exhaustion that she hasn’t felt since-- _ Before _ \--washes over her. David catches her and Henry is on his feet in an instant, wrapping one of her arms around his shoulder.

“Miss Swan!” Regina’s voice. It’s fading in and out. Emma wants to be angry at the tone, at the ‘Miss Swan’. She wants to be, and she  _ is _ .

It’s somehow a relief. To feel things, normal things. In normal daylight. In her parents’ arms, and her kid’s.

If only she were warm. Her teeth are chattering. If only Killian were--

“Miss Swan, what--”

“She said--” Emma Swayed again “--his soul--”

“Who?” Regina’s hands on her shoulders, shaking her. “Who said? Whose soul?”

“Killian’s,” Emma whispers.

Her legs give out and Emma closes her eyes.

\--

Henry doesn’t want to be afraid of his mother.

Of his--of Killian.

And he’s not, it’s--it’s easy not to be, when Emma is curled up on the chair in his grandparents’ loft, wrapped up in blankets and the heater plugged in at her feet; when Killian is propped up on the end of the couch and not looking at anyone or anything but Emma won’t take her eyes off him as she plays with something small and silver, a chain dangling from her fingers. Henry’s not afraid of them.

He’s afraid  _ for _ them.

Regina had to  _ poof _ them home after Emma passed out. Her brow furrowed, her lips narrowed. Now her hands are twitching while they wait for Emma to wake up. Mary Margaret is perched on the side of Emma’s chair, stroking her hair and David stands behind them both, his arms crossed. 

They’re watching Killian, but Henry’s not afraid of him. The magic thing is still  _ weird _ but if Emma found him that meant that Killian was-- _ is _ \--a hero. He died  _ a hero _ . True Love’s Kiss worked and that must mean that everyone gets a happy ending, right?

Henry knows. He  _ believes _ . And he is the first person to notice Emma shifting in the chair as if she’s only just noticing them all there with her.

“Mom,” he says.

“Hmm?” The noise she makes is like a wordless question, but she doesn’t move to look at him.

“Mom.” Henry raises his voice and she turns.

She smiles. It’s only for a second but it’s there--his mom smiling. At  _ him _ . Something in his body he didn’t even realize he was holding inside, it just deflates as relief rushes through him.

“Hey, kid,” she says. Her voice is scratchy but it’s not raspy--it’s not like Before--it’s more like she’s just been crying too much. Like she was after Killian--

Emma turns back to Killian, following Henry’s gaze. “You were right,” she says. “He was in Elysium.”

But now he’s  _ here _ . He’s alive.

“Miss Swan.” Regina’s brow furrow deepens. “What happened? If Hook was in the Elysian Plain, then--”

“Don’t ‘Miss Swan’ me,” Emma snaps and Henry--almost--jumps before he forces himself to relax. “We’ve been through too much for that.” She rubs her head with her hand and it’s still a relief to see her normal smooth skin, even if it’s really washed out. “How long was I gone?”

“Two days,” David says.

“Fifty hours,” Mary Margaret says. “I counted. Fifty hours until we found you by the lake.”

“It felt longer.” Emma goes still again as she watches Killian.

Killian, who isn’t moving or listening. There is nothing in his eyes--no personality, no laughter, no interest, no recognition.

Nothing.

“Emma. Please. Tell us what happened.” Regina’s voice is softer now.

Emma’s hands move over the blanket as she tightens it around herself. She nods. “I found him.”

“In Elysium,” Henry says.

“No. No, he--something happened and he--Hades had him. I had to--” she shudders. “We had to go after Hades. We escaped. We needed  _ help _ .”

“Hades,” David repeats. “The god of the Underworld. Hades had Killian?” Emma nods again.

“It’s okay, Emma. You’re safe now.” Mary Margaret’s low murmur is like a lullabye. “Take your time.”

Emma looks at her mother and smiles. Barely. It’s gone before it even forms and then she says, “Hades took him. Lured me to him. He wanted me-- _ our _ \--magic to break his ties to the Underworld.”

“Yes, about that.” Henry can see Regina holding back her impatience literally by the skin of her teeth as she speaks. “Why does he still have magic?”

“Because of True Love’s Kiss, it destroyed the Darkness. I don’t  _ know _ , Regina! But Hades had him and he still had the magic and we had to escape and Cruella--”

“Cruella?” Henry interrupts. “Cruella was there?”

“Cruella and the love of her afterlife. A blind witch.  _ The _ Blind Witch.” Emma shrugs.

“I’ve heard of her,” Regina says with grudging respect. “It’s possible she could do this.”

“She used my magic-- _ our _ magic--to do it. It was another trap. They did this,  _ they did this _ \--”

“Shhhhh.” Mary Margaret pushes a lock of hair away from Emma’s forehead. “Take a deep breath.”

Emma looks up, her eyes wide--

And bursts into tears. “She said there was a price and I was going to pay it and the price was Killian’s  _ soul _ .”

On the edge of the couch, Killian starts to shiver. 

“This is my fault,” Emma says. “All of it.”

_ Power. Courage. Heart. Soul _ .

“Oh, shit,” Henry whispers.

His grandparents look at him, but only for a second before they turn back to Emma. There’s a small frown of disapproval on Mary Margaret’s face and he imagines Killian reprimanding him for poor form and bad language and--

“It’s not her fault,” Henry blurts it out, stumbling over his words and looking at Regina. “Mom, you remember, the Dragon  _ said _ \--and Killian  _ knew _ \--I think he knew in Camelot, that this would--”

Slowly, Mary Margaret starts to nod. “He did know, Henry.”

“If the Dragon  _ knew _ then we can fix it, can’t we?”

“That’s what got us into this!” Emma is angry. “Killian trying to fix  _ me _ and then I had to fix--” she gestures. Her eyes are wide and bloodshot and her hair is messy and she looks  _ human _ and frail and like his mom again.

She looks  _ alive _ again. “I have to fix this,” she says. “I  _ have _ to.”

Regina says, “Emma, listen to me. For once.”

Slowly, Emma raises her head--angles it, really, as if she has heard this somewhere before. Her eyes are--

Curious.

“No one knows the lure of the Darkness better than I do. You thought you could be different. You thought you could escape it. But you forget, I have some experience with Dark Ones. Everything’s a manipulation--even to  _ yourself _ . And it felt good, didn’t it? Indulging every impulse, doing whatever you wanted?”

“I felt free,” Emma’s voice is barely audible. Henry’s gulp is louder. “I felt powerful, and  _ safe _ . But it was wrong.”

Regina sighs. “Of course it is. But it’s also human, and I know you, Emma. It took a long time, but I really know you, and you’re not as weak as I once was. So  _ let us help you _ . The right way, for the right reasons. Tell us what happened. What  _ really _ happened.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Emma says, but her voice is weak, like she doesn’t believe it.

She’s staring at Killian again and Henry takes a deep breath and gets up and walks over to him. He sits down, carefully.

“There’s always a choice. You’ve said that to me a thousand times. You did the wrong thing. You made the wrong choice,” Regina says.

And Killian-- _ turns _ .

Just a hair, just the tiniest bit. His hand is shaking.

Henry takes it, gently. It’s cold. It’s  _ so cold _ , but Killian stops shaking.

“Let us help you, sweetheart,” Mary Margaret says. “Please. Let us help both of you. This family always finds a way. The  _ right _ way. That’s what Killian was trying to do, and that’s what we need to do. As a family. For both of you. I still have hope.”

David’s hand lands on Emma’s shoulder. He squeezes. He looks like he’d rather pull her up into a hug and carry her away, if only Emma would let him.

He says, “You’re safe now, Emma. Safe at home. With people who love you. Who love  _ both _ of you.”

And finally, Emma says, simply, “I’m sorry.”

And she tells them.

And through it all, Killian sits--motionless.

\--

Time has no meaning here.

It runs through his scarred fingers, racing along, endlessly stretching; it leaves nothing to hold on to but madness and anger. There is nothing to do in this grey without time, without purpose--it is a space without meaning, a pocket of empty.

It may have been centuries ago that he was trapped here.

It may have been hours.

There is no way to know.

\--

Time passes. Emma can feel it, can watch the progression of the days and the nights.

But it’s meaningless. 

There is nothing to hold on to but madness--madness and anger and  _ hope _ .

Mary Margaret and David have vacated the loft and she wishes, not for the first time in her life, for her parents--but more often than not she is grateful they are gone, glad they do not have to see what she sees and hear what she hears when he thrashes in the bed, his face contorted in wordless screams; to touch him and watch him pull away, his eyes open and once more blank.

She did this to him.

She wonders if Liam is watching, watching him--watching  _ them _ .

Hopes he isn’t.

Emma wakes in an empty bed, the sheets pulled back and tangled and mussed and Killian is gone.

Again.

Sometimes he gets up and it makes hope well up inside her every time, gets up and walks out the door and through the town, and each time she follows at a distance, hopeful, so hopeful, for him to see something and know it, for a spark of recognition, for something, anything--

But then there are the other times, the times when he wanders the night, prowls through the shadows, hisses and snaps and the magic explodes in his wake, tiny eruptions that feel as though they are cutting out pieces of her flesh.

Of her heart.

She can feel it coming on, she’s realized, can feel the pull of the power on him--on both of them--can feel the slow brightening of the moon as it waxes, a current under her skin. Even though she is not that creature anymore, that desperate, ravaged, ruined, broken  _ thing _ , she can feel the Darkness--an echo, a memory--can almost hear Nimue’s whisper and her laughter in the rustling of the wind as she follows him.

Those are the nights she wishes she could hear him, instead, and the way he used to say her name: soft. Lovely.  _ Loving _ .

Those are the nights she fears him, when there is nothing but an emptiness in her soul in the place where he used to be.

But even so, Emma follows him.

\--

Henry doesn’t exactly know what it means that the Blind Witch “took Killian’s soul.”

That’s the problem--no one does.

“I think it’s most likely,” Belle says, “that the Blind Witch took the part of Killian that made him--well,  _ him _ . He’s like a walking shade given corporeal form.”

“He’s feral,” Regina says. “Pure instinct. Pure emotion.”

“Both of those things can’t be true,” Mary Margaret says.

When they go to the library, Henry always makes sure to put Killian in between himself and Aunt Belle. 

It’s a reflex. It’s almost an accident, but Henry can’t bear to look at Emma when she sits with Killian, so he leaves his grandmother to sit with her, to hold her hand and stroke her hair and besides, when his grandmother reminds him that “everything is going to be okay” he  _ wants _ to believe it but somehow when Belle reaches for a book and gives him a small smile and moves slowly so she doesn’t startle Killian it’s much easier to believe.

Or it would be, if they could find anything.

Maybe it’s the comfort of the routine but Henry could almost convince himself that Kilian  _ likes _ to be left there, between him and Belle.

Or it would be, if Killian could  _ feel _ anything.

“They’re not.” Emma’s voice is flat. There are bruises under her eyes from tiredness. She won’t let him stay in the loft with her--with them--though he asks, every day. Henry thinks that  _ Killian _ would have let him.

It’s not true, but it makes him feel better.

“They’re not both true,” Emma says, rubbing her face with her hand to push a strand of hair out of her face. “He has no emotions, there’s nothing--” she coughs, only it’s more like a sob “--it’s like he’s empty.”

But he’s  _ breathing _ , Henry thinks.

“At least he’s breathing,” Emma whispers.

“He’s not empty. He still has the magic.” Regina says it like an accusation.

“The Blind Witch said--”

“She  _ lied _ , Emma.” Regina is exasperated, her lips a thin line. “You’re lying, too. He’s been walking at night. Casting spells.”

Mary Margaret looks at Emma. “Is that true?” 

Emma looks away. “I’ve been following him,” she says. “I never let him out of my sight. When he does something, I can undo it, I can--”

“My point,” Regina says, wth a look to silence Emma, “is that magic  _ is _ emotion. He has the magic, therefore he has emotion. And one of these nights, you aren’t going to be able to contain it.”

“He--”

“He’s not a Dark One anymore, with the knowledge of the Darkness and its magic. He’s working on pure instinct.”

“He’s still  _ Killian _ ,” Emma says.

“No,” Regina says. “He’s not. Not right now. Emma, if you didn’t want him to change, you should have let him die.”

Silence.

_ Silence _ .

Next to Henry, Killian shifts.

“No,” Mary Margaret says. “No, I don’t believe that. Love is  _ worth it _ , it’s worth the risk of making bad choices--” Emma’s face is slack and Mary Margaret turns to Regina with an accusation in her eyes. “You’re not helping by being cruel.”

“I wasn’t cruel. I’ve  _ been _ cruel. Trust me, you’d know it.” Regina shrugs. “I’m not saying we’re not going to help. But in order to help, we need to get to the truth. It’s not my fault that truth is painful.”

“Stop it, the two of you, I can’t--” Emma’s angry. “I can’t watch the two of you just talking about me like I’m not here, like it’s all fine, like--”

“What are you even  _ talking about _ ?” Regina explodes.

“I saw you two in Camelot. In the mirror. Just the best of friends, and--”

Regina’s face is a snarl. She has that fire-shooting look in her eyes. “Are you serious right now?”

Emma says nothing but a light bulb explodes and Regina’s face relaxes into something like satisfaction. It’s her smug face.

“Thank you for proving my point,  _ Miss Swan _ .”

Mary Margaret reaches for Emma’s arm. Emma moves it. Mary Margaret clears her throat and says, “Regina is my step-mother. And we were trying to help you. Together.”

“The first time in three decades we’ve worked together and it was because of  _ you _ , Emma.” Regina throws her hands up in the air. The fire-shooting look is back and Henry glances nervously at the books around them, the books they might need. “But you wouldn’t let us help you. You  _ wouldn’t let us _ . Those walls you put up, Emma--it’s time they come down.”

  
  


Belle says, quietly, calmly, “Emma, think about how far Killian was willing to go to save you. We tried to help him. Now we’re trying to help you.”

It’s funny, or it would be, because Henry has a feeling that Belle would really like to say ‘I told you so’ but she’s not the kind of person who would ever do that and besides, she  _ likes _ Killian.

Emma crumples. “I know. I guess I’ve just forgotten what it’s like to have someone, you know, give me hope--” she looks at Mary Margaret “--or tell me to stop being stupid.” She takes a deep breath and sits upright, looks around at all of them. “Okay, Belle, tell us.”

“My hypothesis--”

And it’s weird. It’s almost funny, or it would be if not for everything else, but Mary Margaret nudges Henry right then, her hand under the table, and says, “An hypothesis is a proposed explanation--”

Like they’re still in sixth-grade science.

“Grandma, I know what an hypothesis is,” Henry says with a sigh. “I know stuff. Aunt Belle thinks Killian’s a zombie.”

_ Killian _ would know that Henry knows, he thinks. Belle smiles at him and nods.

But it’s a mistake, because it just reminds Regina that it’s been a while since he’s been to school.

Regina brings it up just when David walks in, lunch in hand, and Henry scoots his chair over so his grandfather can take a turn next to Killian, watches him with sad but wary eyes and claps a hand to his shoulder that Killian ignores.

“You should really be in school,” Regina says.

“I’m not going,” Henry says, crossing his arms. “This is where I belong. With my  _ family _ .”

Instinctively, he looks to Killian, imagines him smiling and joking and persuading him to go just like he had in the library, Before--but then averts his eyes and turns to his grandmother, who is watching both of them.

And Henry knows that she remembers, too.

“He can stay,” Emma says, looking at him. “He  _ should _ stay. Killian would want him to help.” She smiles, a weak smile, and all Henry can think is that they have to get Killian back, soon.

He needs to put his family back together.

\--

He is not the person she remembers.

He doesn’t see her when he looks at her. Doesn’t respond when she makes contact, doesn’t hold her hand when she takes it, or squeeze her fingers back. Doesn’t react when she says his name. He eats when she puts food in front of him and lays down next to her when she turns the lights out and he sits in the armchair in the living room when left alone, still as a statue, for hours.

The days feel like years.

They blur into each other seamlessly, the Darkness and the Underworld, Above and Below, Before and--

After.

Emma sleeps heavily, her body drained by the Darkness-induced insomnia. By the trauma and the exhaustion of the Underworld. There is no way to tell how long she sleeps in fevered dreams, images that meld past and present together.

When she wakes up and he is gone, she feels like crying.

When she wakes up and he is there, tossing and turning and looking at her, she feels like screaming. 

She calls her magic to them, to him, and he hisses as if it pains him when she puts her hands on him, cups his cheek, stares into his empty blue eyes until he stills. She calls his name, whispers it, repeats it like a prayer.

She says his name as if it can make him remember.

_ Killian.  _ _  
_ _ Killian Jones _ .

\--

She says his name like it means something to her.

It means nothing to him.

But in a corner of his heart of darkness, a corner he protects with everything he has, he loves that she says his name like that. Or he would, if he still knew how to love.

\--

When the eruption comes, Emma isn’t ready for it.

She’s not ready for the explosion, a flood of power and darkness that twist away from his grasp and roar out of control. Some spells, they ricochet back as you cast them, do more damage than you intend--all of them can do worse than end a heartbeat.

This should not have been one of them.

She should have felt it, felt the power gaining with the moon and it’s full tonight--but they’re out of options and she’s desperate.

Regina’s the one who suggests going to Gold.

It’s Henry and Belle who veto it.

“Killian wouldn’t want that,” Henry says.

“Rumple doesn’t know anything about this,” Belle says.

They decide on a compromise: to go back to the Mansion.

It makes Emma shiver just to think about it; she knows this place will haunt her for the rest of her life, the sconces and the way they looked when Merlin sat her down and stared at her, every line of it etched into her brain and the way the blue light looked when Killian had--

The glowing letters.

EMMA SWAN. KILLIAN JONES.

What she doesn’t notice--what she doesn’t let herself see--is that it makes Killian start to  _ shake _ .

As they pass through the wrought-iron gates and Belle looks around them, apprehensively, and then looks at Killian--Emma doesn’t notice.

It’s almost like she’s waiting for the buzzing to start in her ears and in her brain, the pressure.

There’s nothing in this place but bad memories and Emma feels all of them pounding in her skull. They are barely across the threshold when Killian freezes, pale and drawn and the muscle in his jaw throbbing.

“Where are we?”

His voice.  _ His voice _ .

Low and raspy and wrong.

That’s when she notices the shaking. 

But--there’s power here. Or there was--Merlin’s dead now.

Who the fuck even knows?

But “it’s an idea,” Henry says, “and it doesn’t involve Mr. Gold.”

Poor Henry, poor sweet Henry who wants so badly to believe--because a Dragon told him so--to find a solution, and Emma’s willing to do anything, to try  _ anything _ , at this point. Power, courage, heart, soul,  _ what the fuck ever _ as long as it might work. The Author pen is gone but maybe Henry can--

“This is useless,” Regina says. “We won’t be able to do any good here.”

_ That _ ’s when it hits her, and she whispers. “Do the right thing, not the good thing.”

And Regina rounds on her. “What did you say? Did you remember something?”

“Just something Merlin told me,” Emma says. “About doing the right thing.”

“And when were you going to share that with the rest of us?”

“You’re not exactly the person I need a lecture from when it comes to doing the right thing, Regina,” Emma says.

“Maybe not,” Regina says. “But if I’m the one on the moral high ground, you’ve fallen quite a ways.”

“I never would have done any of it if I didn’t have a good reason,” Emma says.

“Good reasons.” Regina is unimpressed. “There’s a difference between not knowing something and not wanting to admit it and I think it’s time, Emma.”

“Admit what?”

“Villains don’t get happy endings.”

“Killian’s not--”

“I wasn’t talking about the pirate,” Regina says. “You can lie to yourself, if you want to, Emma. But you can’t lie to me, and you can’t lie to  _ him.  _ You’re trying to get back on a path that isn’t there anymore, not trying to repair what you’ve broken.”

“Listen to you, the expert on making things right,” Emma sneers.

“I’m  _ trying _ , Emma,” Regina says. “I can never repay what you did for me. What Robin does for me, what your mother does for me, what  _ Henry _ does for me. I can only try to make something new.”

“ _ He’s _ the one that fixes what’s broken,” Emma says, pointing at Killian. “We make each other better.”

“Not the way he is now,” Regina says. “Not the way  _ either _ of you is right now.”

“I’m trying to  _ fix it _ !” Emma screams.

She  _ screams _ .

(Darkness and fury and rage begin to howl.)

And Emma can  _ feel _ it, the moment when he snaps.  _ That’s _ when she moves toward him, the light already in her hands as he steps away from her and his eyes go dark--

She can feel it, deep inside of her soul in the place where he used to be.

(They tear at him, with might, with power, and scream)

(and scream)

(until his ears bleed, until his mind folds, until his eyes lose all sight)

(until he can no longer think)

(or feel)

(or  _ be _ )

(until he is ripped apart at the seams of his very existence, and all that is left)

(all that is left)

(everything he is)

(is that corner of his heart)

(where she lives.)

The smoke is red and it rises from the floorboards along with the heat and the flames--bolts of fucking  _ lightning _ and the mansion is on fire.

And--there’s a small part of her--deep in the recesses of her mind--that is okay with this.

Until.

Henry is running, his footsteps echoing on the wood floor between the library and the study, calling for her, for Regina, for  _ Killian _ , and Killian turns.

Almost.

Reaches his hand toward the fire and hisses as the flame surges, a wall between Emma, Regina, Killian and  _ their son _ .

“Henry!” Emma is screaming.

“Mom!”

“ _ Do _ something, Miss Swan!” Regina yells, her hands up in front of her and Emma can feel the power gathering.

She reaches for him,  _ reaches _ with the power and the magic and everything she has.

(And then--light.)

(Light inside the endless grey, penetrating the fires of the damned and the pain, light that is warm and strong. It has a color.)

(And not just a color.)

(A heartbeat. A breath. A soul.) 

(It solidifies in front of him, becomes the shape of a woman.)

(A face patient and gentle, eyes that glitter green.)

(Hands that gather the tattered remains of his soul in hers.)

“Regina!” Emma calls, not sure if the words are audible or just in her own mind. “Get us out of here!”

(He would cry in relief if he could still remember how.)

\--

She lays Killian in the bed and spreads herself on top of him when he is calm, when he is quiet. She puts her head against his chest and listens to his heart beat and feels the warmth of his breath tickle her ear when he is still but not sleeping.

“Mom,” Henry whispers, the bed creaking under his weight as he sits on the edge of the mattress next to both of them. Emma wouldn’t let her parents come to the loft when Regina  _ poof _ ed them back but Henry refused to leave her.

_ Them _ .

Henry puts his hand on her shoulder, gently. “Mom, it’s okay to be afraid. To be sad, and angry, and frustrated. It doesn’t mean we have to give up.”

He sounds so sure. So  _ certain _ . Like he’s repeating something he knows to be true.

“I was really scared tonight, too,” he says.

Emma sniffles. It sounds like something Killian would say.

“Mom--”

“Emma?”

She sits up at the same time Henry jumps.

That’s the only reason she knows she hasn’t imagined it, the voice calling her name.

“Liam?” she whispers.

Henry’s mouth is frozen open, a rounded ‘O’.

“Liam, we’re here--it’s--” she swallows “--it’s really bad. I’m  _ trying _ , I am, but--”

“It’s not working.” His voice fades in an out, like a radio dial caught between stations. “Emma, lass, he trusts you. Keep trying. Try something new. I know you’ll do the right thing.”

Emma’s cold, the blood draining from her face--her tears feel like they might freeze in place.

“Mom?” Henry whispers. “Is that--”

“Is that--” Liam says at the same time. 

Henry takes a step forward, a hand reaching out. “Uncle Liam?”

“Lad.” The voice is weaker, farther away. “Your mum, Killian--they love you so much. I’m proud--”

But the voice is gone.

Killian is stirring and Emma bends over, her hand against his cheek, her fingers in his hair, her tears falling freely.

“Oh my god, mom,” Henry says. “What  _ happened _ down there?”

Emma turns her head and Henry’s face is so--

She swallows. “I’ll tell you someday. I promise.”

He doesn’t want to leave her, after that. Doesn’t want to be alone.

Neither does Emma.

They were just  _ haunted _ . By a ghost.

Emma takes Henry’s hand and sits with him on the couch in the loft, wraps her arms around her kid and strokes his hair and his face and kisses him until he falls asleep.

She walks back over to the bed and sits and pulls Killian’s head into her lap

She watches him, his closed eyes and his still form and sees it all over again, the way it was when he’d been dead, when she’d held him and felt the looseness and then the stiffness as the life left him because of a wound she’d inflicted. 

She’s dreamed about it.

_ now i lay me down to sleep-- _

But each morning she wakes, exhausted and sweating, and begins again.

Not today.

She watches him as he trembles and takes his hand in hers; she watches him flinch away from the magic lighting her hands and her touch. She breathes and counts and inhales and exhales as though she is doing it for both of them, to remind him how.

And she knows, she  _ knows _ \--

“Come with me,” she says.

He gets up, gets dressed, pulling on his jacket and his boots and closing the door behind him.

He follows her, even now.

(To the end of the world, or time.)

She sees it again every time she closes her eyes--the burst of rainbow light and the way his eyes changed back into someone she knew.

The man she loved.

The man who loved her.

She,  _ Emma Swan _ , is the Savior.

She,  _ Emma Swan _ , would vanquish the darkness.

That’s what heroes did.

Whatever price there was, it was not Killian’s to pay.

“Killian,” she says, and he startles at her voice and the sound of his name. “I’m going to tell you a story.”

She sees it in her dreams. 

Every night she saves him.

But that’s not how this story goes.

_ Be free of your fear. _

And--finally--she isn’t afraid.

\--

She looks at him, takes his hand. 

“It was you, Killian.” She’s crying as her fingers thread through his, as she lifts both to her own heart until he can feel it beating under his palm. “The only reason any of it worked was because of you. Because even then, you still believed in me.”

He thinks he can see the world in her eyes as she says this, as she whispers, “Death cannot stop True Love. It can only delay it.”

His eyes follow hers as she reaches with her free hand, traces the letters.

_ Killian Jones _ .

The dirt is still fresh and he can smell it.

Tears are rolling down her cheeks.

“ _ You _ were my sacrifice,” she says. “My True Love. But Hades was right. I couldn’t let you go.”

_ True Love. _

“I miss you. I miss you so much. I’m sorry.”

And this--this one thing, this one, small thing that  _ finally _ means something to him, that means everything to him---

this he will not give up.

Not inside the shreds of his ruined existence, not inside the screaming and howling and darkness and fury, not for anything, anything

anything 

at 

all

“So you see,” she says, and there is something stirring within him, fighting to listen to her, to  _ stay with her _ . She squeezes the hand she still holds and says, “It’s my turn now.”

Her eyes are warm and full of love, glittering green in the sunlight as she shakes her head and says, in a voice he has to strain to hear, that might just be an echo across his soul, “It’s my turn to do the right thing.”

Her smile is brilliant, sad and yet full of joy.

“I love you,” she says.

He feels her as she draws even closer, feels the power in her as it calls to the power in him, as she raises her hand and his and the stone bearing his name--the name she calls him--vanishes.

And he knows, he  _ knows _ , that whatever she is atoning for, he has already forgiven.

“I know how the story ends now,” she says. 

She leans forward to kiss him.

Her lips are soft and warm and so very familiar, like the flash of rainbow light that bursts around him.

“I love you,” he says. Feels the truth of it,  _ feels it _ .

She wraps herself around him again, uses her whole body.

And leans her forehead against his. “I know,” she whispers. “Close your eyes.”

\--

Killian opens his eyes.

He sits up, slowly. 

Every muscle in his body is screaming in protest. His head is threatening to split open. He blinks against the pain and waits for the darkness around him to resolve and then he sees.

They’re in the cemetery, moonlight and headstones and Emma is next to him.

Motionless.

_ Lifeless. _

He does not know what day it is.

What  _ year _ it is.

How long it has been since he was--

But he  _ remembers _ and he  _ knows _ and this is not how it should be.

He is whole and unblemished, his heart beating in his chest as if it never stopped, his lungs expanding as he inhales and contracting as he exhales and he  _ feels,  _ he feels alive and none of it matters because Emma is in his arms and it doesn’t feel like she is breathing.

_ It doesn’t feel like she is breathing _ .

“Emma,” he whispers. His voice is a croak, breaking in his fear and his anguish. “Emma, love, what have you done?”

This is not how the story ends.

Darkness and death and  _ True Love _ and this cannot be how it ends.

The Darkness breaking them almost beyond repair--

But then there is the light. 

_ Her _ light, the light inside him that comes from her, from  _ them _ , that hums and resonates and finds every crack in his battered ego, in his bruised pride, in his broken resolve.

For what is a crack, if not a way for the light to get in?

The feeling, the determination, hums between his fingertips, in time with his traitorous heartbeat.

They’ve forgiven themselves--each other--for what had happened, for what they had done.

To themselves.

To each other.

Because they choose to.

Because they can be  _ better _ . Together.

He  _ believes _ it.

And he will not let it end like this.

It’s  _ enough _ .

It’s too much.

Killian bends his lips to Emma’s and kisses her.

He feels it, the buzz in his head--soft and sweet, the warmth and hope and the rainbow light exploding but all he  _ sees _ , all he cares about, is Emma.

Emma and her open eyes and the release of her breath as warmth against his body.

When Killian pulls her close and kisses her again he doesn’t care one bit that he is sobbing while he laughs.

\--

He finds her.

(He always finds her.)

He sits down on the bench next to her and smiles and says, “Was it getting to be a bit much for you?” 

Emma doesn’t answer him. She leans toward him and he meets her halfway as she reaches for him, kisses him. It’s soft and warm and it’s too short, but his breath warm against her lips will never not be worth it.

His  _ breath _ . Warm. Against her lips.

She can’t stop touching him. Doesn’t ever want to.

Killian tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear and she looks at him, at his eyes fond and understanding, because it  _ had _ been a bit much. Granny’s has always been loud but now it’s--

It’s  _ overwhelming _ .

And everyone wants a piece of them as the entire town celebrates their return to ‘normal’.

Whatever that means.

“It was,” she says finally. “But I knew you’d find me.”

“Always,” he says. “I will always find you.”

He pulls her into his lap, his arms wrapping around her; he buries his nose in her hair and kisses her neck and she loves the  _ feel _ of it, not just the warmth of his breath but the warmth that is  _ him _ , the way her skin feels electrified and she can feel his heart beat. “None of that now, love,” he says. “Don’t cry.”

But she’s crying. She can’t help it--the words  _ sound _ different than they did Before, feel  _ different _ than they did Before.

She believes him now, in a way that she didn’t Before. 

Emma leans her head against his chest and tucks her head under his chin and lets herself be small. Here, now, in his arms with the warmth of him against her she doesn’t have to be the Savior, a mother, a daughter, a sheriff, a princess; she doesn’t have to do everything-- _ anything _ \--alone. She can let herself be less.

Let herself  _ be _ .

It’s important.

She can let herself  _ need. _

She needs him. Needs to feel his soul entwined with hers, needs to let him, his presence, his  _ being _ , give her meaning.  _ Life _ .

It does. 

_ He _ does.

She turns her head up just enough that her lips brush against his pulse point and exhales, a tiny sigh as she nuzzles against his neck. “Do you know why I came here?”

Emma feels his head turn just slightly, just enough for him to look around at the gentle slope to the lake and the park and the bench where they are sitting.

Not enough for him to dislodge her--in fact, he pulls her even closer, holds her more tightly against him.

“I don’t,” he finally says. “This is not the part of the shore where we--”

“No,” she says, her voice tight and loud and shaking, just a little, and then she forces herself to be calm before she says, “No. No, it’s not. And I don’t want to be afraid of that place, Killian, we need to remember it--”

“--it’s part of our story, after all,” he whispers. His voice is so soft.

“It is,” she says. “But I chose to come here.”

He takes in a deep, sharp breath, a tiny  _ oh _ of realization. “This is where I found you after you ran from the diner,” he says, and she kisses him again, a little higher this time. 

“I shouldn’t have done that,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for, love. We had ourselves quite the adventure. One for the storybooks, even.”

“I was running,” she says, and he-- _ laughs _ .

“You were,” he agrees. “But you don’t do that anymore.”

She laughs, too. “No. I don’t run anymore.” She takes his hand in hers, squeezes it hard. “That was the second time you found me. But it was the first time--” she stops, swallows “--the first time I saw how far you’d go. How far you’d  _ already _ come.”

“Saw what a bastard I’d been, you mean,” he says. Vulnerable, as if there’s anything in any realm that could make her love him less.

“No.” There’s no hesitation, no fear, nothing shaky in her voice this time. “ _ No _ . We went to the past that day but you showed me the future.  _ Our _ future. Together. And this bench, here--” she points “--this is where  _ we _ began. I fell in love with you that day, Killian. I didn’t know it yet. It took me a long time to figure it out--”

“Don’t I know it,” he says, but his hand tightens around hers, his thumb traces a circle on her wrist. She kisses him, and just for a minute there is no bench or time or space or  _ air _ but finally she pulls away.

“This is where  _ we _ began,” she says again. “And I think we should start our next adventure here, too.”

“Emma--” His look goes from adorably puzzled to slightly apprehensive and he says, “We just went through hell.” His laugh is small. His eyes are shiny, full of love and wonder. “I wish that was a metaphor. Our next adventure?”

She chuckles. It feels so good to chuckle, to have a laugh about the madness that has been their lives. “No more swords,” she says. “No more daggers, Killian. I promise.”

She kisses him. Says, simply, “Move in with me.”

They haven’t spent a night--or more than a few minutes--apart from each other since they’d returned to the world Above. But this--it’s important, too. 

“Let’s get a place. Together. Something that’s  _ ours _ , where I can always be next to you when I wake up.” His hand is shaking in hers, very slightly. “I always want to be next to you, Killian.”

Not a happy ending.

A happy beginning.

And there’s his face again--hopeless, confused, adorable--when he says, “Nothing would please me more. Except--”

“Yeah?” But she knows what he’s thinking, because she’s thought it too. Not often. Not always. It’s a big thing to think about, after all, but--

“--maybe a family?  _ Our _ family?”

\--it’s no longer scary.

“Henry would be a great big brother,” Emma says.

“Aye,” Killian agrees, and the way he smiles--it lights up the entire night.

“I love you, Killian,” she says.

“I love you too,” he says, before he leans forward and whispers, “I love you so much, Emma Swan,” and he kisses her,  _ hard _ , so hard and she kisses him back, harder, because she knows. Knows it beyond measure, beyond reason, in the bottom of her heart and the depths of her soul and the way it flows in her magic, that she is his and he is hers and that nothing-- _ nothing _ \--can ever change that.

That little Lost Girl who sat in the movie theater, she can just grin at the usher and enjoy her stolen candy bar and  _ leave the sword alone _ .

Forever.

  
  


The End.


End file.
